


Penumbra

by Apuzzlingprince



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gore, Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Themes, Violence, gooie fluff at several points, mention of past Stanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:37:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/pseuds/Apuzzlingprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A serial killer is plaguing Gravity Falls, and the failing local law enforcement have come running to 'Stanford' Pines for help. Along the way, Stanley teams up with an odd, but kind man named Fiddleford Mcgucket, and the two of them work together to find the perpetrator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How it all began

It was never a surprise when the police showed up on Stanley’s doorstep. When he had a doorstep for them to show up on, that was, and this was one of those rare occasions where he actually did. He didn’t own it, technically, but Stanford wasn’t here to complain about his self-appointed ownership of the house, nor its gradual transition into the Mystery Shack.

It had initially been called ‘Murder Hut’, but that name had lost its appeal once _actual_ murders had started taking place in town. He suspected this unfortunate choice of name was the reason the local law enforcement was currently looking down at him from his (Stanford’s) porch. He was reluctant to talk to them, but he knew it would be incriminating if he didn’t, so he feigned a smile and stepped out onto the doormat to greet them.

“Mornin’, officers.” The coffee he was holding steamed in the chilly morning. He took a sip, and it immediately warmed his belly. “Can I help you with something?”

“You can, yes,” the younger of the two replied. He had short blonde hair and dark brown eyes, and his pale skin suggested he didn’t get out much. “But first, I’m Ennis. Ennis Suite, and my partner here is Rayban Regan.” Ennis gestured to his much shorter, fatter friend. _What weird fucking names_ , Stanley thought. Rayban Regan, Eustace Huckabone Befufftlefumpter, Bud Gleeful; the people of this town must have all been conceived by parents who hadn’t planned on kids. ‘Whoops, well, I can’t think of a normal name, so I’ll just name them after a brand of sunglasses. Or better yet, give them the most nonsensical name imaginable’.

Stanley had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Uh huh. Stanford Pines. Y’probably already know me, though.” There had been enough gossip about him that he was sure everyone in town knew his name. Or the name he was currently choosing to go by, anyway. “So, now that introductions are outta the way _,_ what do’y want?”

“We were actually hoping you would be able to help us with the murder case.” Ennis flashed white teeth. It was probably meant to be a disarming expression, but Stanley found it disconcerting.

“Huh? Am I a suspect or something?”

“Oh, no. What I mean is, we want you to help us solve it.”

Stanley looked incredulous. “Why would ya come to me for that? I’m just some guy who lives in the woods.”

“You’re also one of two scientists that live in town, and we're a little doubtful on that other one,” Ennis went on to say. “You’re the closest we can get to real help. No one else is willing to come down here to assist. Not to a place like Gravity Falls.”

Stanley laughed. When neither officer followed suit, it tapered off into awkward titters. “Ha…ah… you’re serious?”

“Very serious,” Ennis confirmed.

Gravity Falls was a secluded place, hours from high society and surrounded by forests and mountains, but it was still hard to believe law enforcement would call on the help of a man who had spent the majority of their time in Gravity Falls holed up in their house. Six years, and he knew from reading Stanford’s journal entries and looking at the calendar that Stanford had only ever ventured into town for necessities. He hadn’t led the sort of life that would have made him seem like a good candidate for this sort of job.

Stanley was aware the police here weren’t exactly competent, but this was beyond embarrassing.

“Nah, sorry. I’m not a guy you want working on something like this.” He scratched his left butt cheek and yawned, which he was sure conveyed his point better than any words could have. “Go ask some other smuck, because my specialty is electronic thingies and science stuff, not… Sherlock Holmes shit.”

For the first time, Ennis’ companion spoke up. “Mr. Pines, please. You’re quite literally the only choice we have left.”

“Gee, that sure makes me feel wanted.” He leaned into his door frame, arms folded and coffee nestled into the crook of an elbow. “Who else didya ask?”

“Who do you think?” Ennis mimicked him, folding his own arms. “Other stations, ones several hours away. No one was willing to come down. They said we’re already well-equipped to deal with something like this, but no one on station has been able to get anywhere with these murders-”

Ray’s gravelly voice interrupted. “We’ve read about your contributions to science, and they’re amazing. To be frank, you have more experience with the observation, evaluation, and forensics of a case like this than anyone on station. We’re country folk. The closest we’ve gotten to a real crime until now was the occasional robbery by unruly teenagers who voluntarily came forward.”

“Oh, geeze.” A whole dimension apart, and Stanford was still managing to make his life difficult. Stanley downed the last of his coffee and set the still-warm ceramic mug against his pink nose to warm it. “I doubt I’m gonna be able to help. I’m really not as amazing as you think I am, but if you’re insisting, and I think you are, I will. _Are_ you insisting?”

“That’s not the term we’d like to use, but…” Ennis glanced to his companion, who continued for him.

“Yes, we’re insisting.”

Well, fuck.

There were some people who prayed to God, but Stanley was going to pray to Stanford once he was alone and let his brother know what a massive inconvenience his intelligence was. Oh, and remind him he was a huge cock. He did that at least once a week.

He didn’t see any way out of this, so he gave a reluctant nod. “You’d better not be expecting any miracles, because like I said, this isn’t my thing. I just do science-y stuff with gadgets.”

“Any help is good help, Mr. Pines. We’ll brief you once you’re dressed.” Ray glanced down at Stanley’s legs. Or more specifically, at his absence of trousers. “Meet us at the local station in one hour, and we expect you to be wearing trousers.”

“Uugh, okay.” Stanley peeled his shoulder off the doorframe to better secure his – Stanford’s – dressing gown around his waist. That covered up the blemish that was his naked legs. “I’d better be getting paid for this,” he added in a grumble, deliberately loud enough for the officers to hear.

Ennis took the bait. “We will compensate you for your time. You’ll be receiving the same wage we do at the end of each week.” A police officers wage was nothing to bat an eye at. They made more in a day than Stanley did in a five. He’d been living on bread and butter since running the pantry dry, and it’d be a nice change of pace to have enough money to incorporate meat and vegetables into his meals. He grinned and stepped back into his house, suddenly enthusiastic.

“Well, I’d better go shower and get ready, then!” he exclaimed as he slammed the door in Ennis’ and Ray’s bemused faces.

* * *

He was no stranger to the interior of a police station. He had been in his fair share of them as both a victim and a perpetrator. There was nothing that could surprise him.

But the station in Gravity Falls sure was old. It was more reminiscent of Alcatraz than any of the other stations he had been inside, its pasty yellow brick walls and cement flooring giving one a feeling of claustrophobia. As he was guided into the office portion of the building, he couldn’t help but notice every room smelt faintly of dust and stale coffee. He wrinkled his nose; he really didn’t like this place, even if he was an esteemed guest. It was dark, cold, smelly, and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him the further inside he got.

Well, the sooner he got this briefing done, the sooner he could leave. He sat down opposite the two officers – who appeared to be the only ones on duty – and extended a hand for the manila folder on the desk.

Ray looked his hand, and then back at him. “Mr. Pines, if you want something, you’re going to have to ask for it.”

“It’s alright, Rayban.” Ennis smiled tightly at him. “Stanford means no harm. Here you are.” He dropped the folder into Stanley’s hand, and Stanley immediately set about spreading it's contents out over his thighs. Not exactly professional, but there was no room on the desk. It was cluttered with various documents and utensils and a bulky typewriter.

He almost dropped the entire thing when he pulled out a photograph of a man with his brain splattered across cement. “Holy shit! His head! What the fuck-?” Of course, Stanley had known this was a murder case; he’d read the newspaper articles, reacted accordingly, but he was still surprised by the brutality of the murder.

“He was shot in the head, point blank,” Ennis provided. Stanley’s throat felt unnaturally dry as he listened. “He didn’t suffer, if you’re worried about that. He died instantly.”

“He was our second victim,” Ray added.

“Second? How many more?”

“So far, only three.” Ennis reached over the desk to swipe a line of photographs out of the folder, each as bloody and disturbing as the first. A man with his skull barely attached, a woman with her jaw blown off. Dozens of photographs taken at every conceivable angle.

The sour taste of vomit coated the walls of his throat, but he swallowed it back down before he could be compelled to retch. “Augh, J-Jesus, I dunno if I can get used to seeing this sort of thing.”

Ray offered him a small smile. “It takes a little while to desensitize. A couple of weeks. You’ll probably still feel uncomfortable after that, but you’ll have learned ways to cope by then.”

“How would you know? You said yourself you don’t get any action down here.”

“Dealing with this sort of thing was part of our course,” Ray said. “One of the final things we did to ensure we were up to the job was watch an autopsy. Absolutely hated it. Gave me the willies.”

Ennis didn’t seem able to relate, because he looked across the room in an obvious attempt to feign interest in something else. “Glad I didn’t choose this as a career, then,” Stanley sighed. “I probably would’ve vomited.”

Ray shrugged. “You’d be surprised what you’re able to deal with when it’s right there in front of you.”

Stanley had no interest in finding out how able he was to deal with corpses, so he was careful not to dislodge the photographs as he removed the written documents from the file. The officers were silent as he flipped through the information. They described each murder scene in explicit detail, right down to what one of the victims had been wearing on their little toe. It would have been impressive were it not so disturbing.

The third and final document was considerably shorter than the others. It only filled one page, while the others filled several. He held it up for the officers to see, frowning. “I’ve read cereal boxes longer than this.”

“Yes, well, the person responsible for the other ones was the third victim.” Ray gestured to the document. “That’s the file we wrote up for him.”

Stanley felt shame colour his ears and slid the document back into the folder without another word. He wasn’t a man with a great deal of empathy. He rarely ever spared a thought for the people he scammed, but scamming customers out of a few bucks wasn’t quite the same as inadvertently insulting people who’d just lost a work colleague.

When he looked up, Ennis began to speak. “You might have noticed the documents only describe the victims. We have no clue as to who the murderer might be. Male, female; tall, short. We don’t know.” He reached a hand into his jacket, feeling around for something. “So, we want you to go into town and talk about the murders with people. With anyone you think might be relevant. People will be more relaxed talking about it with a fellow resident, so they’ll be more likely to provide information that could potentially incriminate them. Think of what you're doing for us as a public service.” When he withdrew his hand from his jacket, he was holding a taser. He held it out for Stanley to take.

Stanley was comically awed. A police officer was giving him a taser. Not shooting it at him, like they usually did, but handing it over as a means of self-defense. He was giddy as he took it, turning it over in his hands with all the dignity of a school boy. He didn’t see the officers exchange a look, which was probably a good thing.

“Thanks! Do I get my own police car too?”

“Of course not,” Ray scoffed. “We want you to be subtle, remember? Make the residents feel at ease.”

“Oh, right.” Stanley sounded disappointed. It was probably for the best, though; he didn’t need more reason to have to come back here, into this cold claustrophobic station with a lingering scent of stagnation.

Ennis reached over to take the folder, and Stanley made no attempt to stop him. He’d seen enough. “If you need this,” Ennis began, opening a desk drawer and hovering the file over it. “You’ll find it here. You’re welcome to access it and add to it any time you like.” The file was dropped inside, the drawer slammed shut. Stanley jolted a little at the reverberating thud of wood against wood and nodded rapidly; this environment was making him jumpy. He hadn’t been this tense since the night he had lost Stanford.

He took that as his cue to stand from his chair. He tried to remain composed as he turned, waving a hand over his shoulder in farewell. Neither police officer spoke as he journeyed his way through the building and out the front door. Once outside, he let a full-body shudder wash over him, shoulders quaking and teeth chattering, but he didn’t vomit. He spat off to the side just to make sure, and it was translucent rather than the expected yellow. Maybe he was handling this better than he thought.

Stanley wiped his mouth on the back of a hand and continued walking.

* * *

The residents of Gravity Falls weren’t smart enough to suspect he was questioning people about the murders for any reason other than curiosity. “So, how about those murders? You guy know anything?” Hardly subtle, but the residents were more than happy to spill every detail they were aware of to a willing ear. Susan was especially vocal, going on and on about how one victim was found just outside her diner with his skull several feet away from his head. She gave him a slice of pie to eat while she divulged all the information she had, and by the time she was done, Stan had moved on to drinking his third cup of coffee.

No one had information relevant to the perpetrator. Everything he was told had already been thoroughly covered by the documentation. It was late when he finally headed back to the shack, and he had nothing to show for it.

He fell into bed with his clothes still on and rolled until the blankets were wrapped around him like a cocoon. The house was pitch black, and it seemed to make more noise than it had any night prior. He didn’t sleep well.


	2. The engineer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial killer is plaguing Gravity Falls, and the failing local law enforcement have come running to 'Stanford' Pines for help. Along the way, Stanley teams up with an odd, but kind man named Fiddleford Mcgucket, and the two of them work together to find the perpetrator.

Stanley spent his morning wandering listlessly thorough town. It was spring, still cold, so there weren’t as many people out as he had hoped. He was approached by a young man who’d been dubbed ‘Toby Determined’ by the residents of Gravity Falls, but he had little to offer in the way of information. Toby followed him for a while, asking him what he was doing, where he was going, but Stanley’s reclusive demeanor eventually drove him off.

He decided to take advantage of the relative absence of people and check each crime scene, circling them, hoping to uncover something the officers had missed. He didn’t. He wasn’t able to focus his eyes long enough to give them a proper examination. After a lengthy period of zoning in and out of focus, Stanley decided it was time to get a hot cup of liquid caffeine into his system.

The Greasy's Diner was busier than he had expected it to be. Also warmer. He peeled off his gloves as he stepped inside, passing people chatting animatedly over plates of steaming pancakes and toast. He ordered his joe and strode down the line of booths until he found one with room to spare. A thin man sat in its corner, his sandy blonde head ducked over the strangest machine Stanley had ever seen. He looked like he’d been there a while. Stanley slid into the booth and sat down across from him, and the man immediately lifted his head.

“Stanford! Just the man I was hoping to…” His voice trailed off into silence, his blue eyes attentively looking Stanley over. Stanley felt examined beneath his stare, like a criminal in a line up. Leave it to him to sit across from the one man in town who actually knew Stanford pines.

“Hey,” he greeted awkwardly. “How are you, um…” The back of the machine had a name written across it. He discreetly read it, hoping it was the man’s name and not the brand. “Fiddleford?”

Fiddleford didn’t seem to buy this, but he was amicable in his reply. “That’s my name, yes. And I’m fine, thank you for asking.” His voice was thick with a southern accent that conflicted with his neat appearance and fine attire. He looked like he belonged in front of a class of university students, not in a place called ‘greasy's diner’. “How are you, Stanford? You’re looking a little rugged.”

Stanley leaned his chin on his hand so the lack of clef would be obscured. “I’m – I’m good. Great. Just been uh, working on what I usually work on.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Fiddleford asked with a small, knowing smile.

“The supernatural activity in this place. Monsters and stuff.” A pause, and then he added, “Oh, and the portal.”

The smile on Fiddleford’s face abruptly dropped; his expression changed into something dark and portentous. As he reached over the top of his machine and closed the lid, Stanley could feel a nervous sweat developing on his brow. What had he done to upset him? Stanley knew he suffered from a bit of ‘foot in mouth’ syndrome, but he was sure he hadn’t said anything that could be interpreted as an insult.

Fiddleford leaned across the table, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know where the Mcgucket residence is?”

“Should I…?”

“We’re near the river. I’d like you to meet me there once you’re finished here.” That said, Fiddleford picked up his machine and strode straight out the nearest exit. Stanley watched after him, bewildered. He only managed to snap out of his daze when Susan slid his coffee across the table to him. Stanley managed to fumble out a thank you, knocking the ceramic mug against his teeth as he went to take a sip. He swore and put it back on the table. Well, at least he was awake now.

He decided to forgo drinking his coffee and asked that it be put in a takeaway container. Susan obliged, handing it to him on his way to the door. “Thanks, doll,” he called to her as he hurried outside.

He didn’t bother putting his gloves back on. The coffee was enough to warm his hands. It sloshed around in its container with each leaping step he took, and he didn’t notice the dribble that slipped past the lid and onto his fingers. He didn’t notice much of anything as he jogged through town. He had finally processed what had just happened, and his blood had run cold; what if Fiddleford told everyone he was parading under a false name? He’d be incarcerated, that was for sure, and it would be months – maybe even years before he was able to continue working on the portal, _if_ he was permitted to move back into the shack. _If_ they hadn’t sold it as public property by then.

He couldn’t let that happen. He had to explain himself, convince Fiddleford he wasn’t actually a bad guy. Considering Fiddleford was aware of the portal, maybe that would be easier done than he was anticipating.

The tan hunch of Fiddleford’s back came into view before he had even reached the river. Slowing to a walk, Stanley followed him at a cautious distance. Fiddleford didn’t stop to talk to anyone, nor did he pause to return any of the greetings he received. Mustn’t be the sociable type. He slowed on the lawn of a house a little ways from the river, and then sat down on the veranda with his weird square machine in his lap. Stanley linger back so it wouldn’t look as if he had rushed out after Fiddleford, and then approached with as nonchalant a smile as he could manage.

Once he was in view, Fiddleford ushered him over with a hand. “Good, you’re here. Thought you might run off for a moment there.”

“Why would I do that? I got no reason to run.” Stanley laughed a high, nervous laugh, and Fiddleford regarded him with a wry expression. For someone whose livelihood depended upon his ability to lie, he was a terrible liar.

“Please, sit down.”

Sucking in a nervous breath, Stanley did, seating himself next to Fiddleford with a few feet between them. Despite Fiddleford’s small stature, he found himself feeling intimidated by this beanstalk of a man. His fingers moved restlessly in his lap.

“Stanford mentioned having a twin brother,” Fiddleford said, speaking slow and careful. “He mentioned that you shared a name, so slipping on your brother’s identity must’ve come easy.”

“It’s – It’s not like that,” Stanley protested. A rare note of indignation rang through his words. “There was an accident with the portal – you know the portal, right? It took him from me, so I’m pretendin’ to be him so I can work on fixing it!”

As Fiddleford listened, his gaze grew to be dark and piercing. The portal, again, seemed to be a sensitive topic for him. Stanley closed his mouth and rubbed at the nape of his neck to smooth down the fine hairs that had risen there.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s the truth. I wouldn’t have taken his name if I thought there was any other way to go about savin’ him. I mean, if I told the authorities…” He let the silence speak for itself.

“You say he was taken from you? By the portal?”

Stanley nodded. “Got sucked right into it! I tried turning it back on, but it just sputtered a few times and died.”

“I’m not surprised,” Fiddleford said in a voice that had turned steel. Clearly he didn’t think much of the portal or its creator. “That thing never was stable. Stanford should have destroyed it when he had the chance.”

Stanley’s observation skills were nothing to be envied, but even a child would have noticed Fiddleford spoke as thought he was intimately familiar with the portal. His earlier dread was rapidly being replaced by curiosity. “Were you his buddy or something? His assistant?”

“Work colleague,” Fiddleford answered coolly. “We built that thing _together_.”

Upon hearing that, Stanley’s mouth broke out in a beaming grin. “Ya kidding me! You really built that?” He could have hugged the man. In fact, if Fiddleford agreed to lend a hand, he _would_ hug him. “That means you can fix it, right? You can help me get it working again?”

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” His voice held genuine sympathy. It didn’t make Stanley feel any better, but it was such a rare sentiment that he appreciated it regardless.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I can’t in good conscience fix something that dangerous,” Fiddleford replied. His voice was soft and solemn. “I’ve seen beyond it, and what lies on the other side has the potential to destroy this world.”

Stanley huffed. “Help me get my brother back, and you can do whatever you want with the damn thing. Dismantle it, throw it into one of those things that crush cars-“

“Compactors?”

“Right, those things.” He reached his hands towards Fiddleford, imploring; the man remained still as he squeezed his elbow. “Please, just- I can’t live without my brother. I just can’t do it. He’s everything to me.”

Eyes diverted, Fiddleford put a hand over the one on his elbow and squeezed. “I - I'm sorry, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll give it some thought. With all these murders happening, I do have my mind on other things.”

Oh, right! The murders! Meeting Fiddleford had been so sudden that his intentions for the morning had slipped his mind. And, looking down, he realized his now-tepid coffee had spilled all over his hand. Stanley put his drink aside and wiped his hand on his jacket, contributing to the many stains already there.

“I dunno if I should be tellin’ you this, but since we’re already in cahoots…” To hell with confidentiality; he wanted someone - _anyone_ to know what he'd been asked to do, and Fiddleford seemed like the perfect candidate. “They're makin' me work on the case. Not my field of work, or my brothers, obviously, but they can’t seem to get a hold of anyone else. Weird, right?”

“Not at all,” Fiddleford answered. His voice had turned firm and matter-of-fact, leaving little room for argument. “This ain’t the first time this place has been refused help by the bigger cities. Crime down here has always been minimal to non-existent, for the most part, so they assume we can take care of ourselves.”

“We probably could if our cops weren’t so incompetent.” Coming from a guy like Stanley, that was saying something. “What sort of numbskulls think askin’ a civilian to do their work for them is a good idea, anyway? I didn't even know that was legal! I’m not gonna get anywhere with the case, I know it.” He started sucking the remnants of coffee off a knuckle. “They’ll probably figure it out after the first pay check.”

“I don’t know about that, Stan… is it _lee_? Or something else?”

“Stanley, yeah.”

Fiddleford smiled, and it wasn’t small, nor strained. It was a real smile this time. “It’s nice to meet you, Stanley. Now..." He paused to recollect his thoughts. “I think anyone can solve a mystery if they try. You might not have as analytical mind as your brother, but you seem far from stupid.”

That was honestly the first time anyone had ever said that to him. Stanley felt a swell of pride. “That’s right, I ain’t stupid! Not as smart as poindexter, but I’m smart in others ways – street smart and stuff.” He curled a hand into a fist, brandishing it at Fiddleford. “And – I dunno – physical smart? Is that a thing?”

Fiddleford let out a weak laugh. “We can categorize that under street smart.”

“I have a lot of street smarts, then!” Stanley said, giving the air a few swipes in demonstration. Fiddleford's expression was bland, but Stanley was pretty sure he was impressed. “Not sure how to apply them to working out this mystery, but I guess I’ll figure that out as I go along.”

Fiddleford visibly hesitated, and then said, “Well, I imagine you’ll have to ask the station first, but I could always help you work that out.”

“Help me? Like… as an assistant?” Stanley definitely wasn’t opposed to the idea. He had always worked better in a team.

Fiddleford frowned; he didn’t seem to appreciate Stanley’s choice of words. “Something like that. Let’s go with ‘partner’ for now.”

“Is there a difference between ‘partner’ and ‘work colleague’? I’m just wonderin’ 'cus you said my brother was your work colleague.”

“There is a difference, yes.” Fiddleford gingerly lifted his device under an arm and stood, brushing muck from the veranda off his ass and thighs. “I say ’work colleague’ to distance myself from your brother.”

“Why would you wanna do that?” Stanley stood after him and ascended Fiddleford’s steps, following Fiddleford to his door.

“I told you: I don’t like the portal, and I especially don’t like what I saw beyond it. Your brother had the opportunity to shut it down and he decided his ego was more important.” Fiddleford opened his door and stepped inside. His posture had become rigid, his knuckles white around the doorknob. “If he hadn’t been sucked into that portal, the sickness would have overwhelmed him. People would have suffered.” He looked over his arm, at Stanley, his weary features accentuated by the shadows. “I don’t want to upset you, Stanley, so I’m going to suggest you don’t ask me these things. I have nothing good to say about your brother, nor the portal.”

The door closed, and Stanley’s mouth closed around the reply he had been about to voice. Something between ‘you don’t _really_ know him’, and ‘I want this to work’. It didn’t matter. They were both tired and miserable enough without Stanley prompting an argument.

On his way down the stairs, he spitefully knocked his foam cup of coffee into Fiddleford’s garden.

* * *

“So, that’s a maybe…?”

Ray sighed. He had been making various different sounds, all disgruntled, since Stanley had proposed a partnership with Fiddleford. “You have a funny way of interpreting things, Pines. It was a _no_.”

“Aw, come on – Ennis, help me out here!”

“I agree with Ray. We should be all the help you need.”

Stanley quickened his pace so he would be walking alongside them. There wasn’t much room to spare in the entrance hall to the police station, but he squeezed himself in so Ennis and Ray would be forced to see his beseeching expression. “But you guys aren’t scientists! Fiddleford _is_! Isn’t more brainpower a good thing?”

“It would be if we weren't already pushing things by letting _you_ help,” Ennis answered.

Stanley dithered on how he should proceed. After a couple of stumbling starts, ‘How about-’, ‘er-’, ‘but he-’, he decided to throw his trump card into the arena. “Okay, listen. _You_ guys are asking for _my_ help, so shouldn’t _I_ get to decide?” If this didn’t work, nothing would.

“Well, I can’t deny that that’s a valid point,” Ennis conceded. “But we're even less familiar with this man than we are you. How well do _you_ know him?”

“We’ve been friends for years,” Stanley lied. There was no telling inflection in his voice like there usually was. It was easier to lie when there was some basis of reality to draw from, even if that reality wasn’t his own. “And I trust him,” he added quickly, to seal the deal.

Ennis exchanged a thoughtful glance with Ray. “To be quite honest, I _was_ leaning towards letting you. But I'll still side with Ray if he decides otherwise.”

Another one of Ray’s long-suffering sighs preceded his reply. “It’s two against one, I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

Stanley whooped and started to make jumping steps backwards. “It’s a yes this time, right?” He needed to ask just to make sure.

“It’s a yes from me!” Ennis called after him.

Ray’s voice was quieter. Reluctant. “And me.”

“Awesome! I’ll go get him so you can brief him like you did me!” However brief his foray the police station had been, he was relieved when he stepped back out into the chilly spring air and warm sunshine. Fiddleford could be briefed on his own. He wasn’t going to return to the depths of that building unless he really needed to.

He jogged along, happier than he had been in months. Gravity Falls was about to be introduced to a new dynamic duo, Sherlock Pines and Wat...Wot... whatever the other guys name was Mcgucket.


	3. Death 2 Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serial killer is plaguing Gravity Falls, and the failing local law enforcement have come running to 'Stanford' Pines for help. Along the way, Stanley teams up with an odd, but kind man named Fiddleford Mcgucket, and the two of them work together to find the perpetrator.

For a couple of weeks, Gravity falls went without incident. No murders, little to no crime. With nothing else to do, he and Fiddleford spent their time getting to know each other. Their rocky start didn’t prevent them from becoming quick friends, and Stanley was surprised to find himself seeking the man’s company. He genuinely liked Fiddleford. It had been a long time since he’d been able to say that about anyone.

He discovered Fiddleford was an engineer, and that the odd little machine he’d been holding was a ‘portable personal computer’. He hoped, one day, to develop a computer that would be widely accessible to the public, but had postponed the project and started living off his savings for the benefit of his mental health. The portal had taken its toll on him, he’d said, sounding grave and looking as if he’d just crawled out of one. He’d wanted to forget, but had failed in that endeavor. Stanley hadn’t asked him to clarify what he meant by that.

They spent most mornings at Greasy’s diner, chatting over a coffee and pancakes and occasionally inviting Susan into their conversations. Stanley didn’t understand half the things Fiddleford told him, things about ‘computer programs’ and ‘data expansion’ and ‘ENIAC’, but nodded along regardless. He liked listening to Fiddleford talk in the same way he’d liked listening to Stanford talk back when they were kids. He always spoke with so much passion; it made Stanley _want_ to understand. Their chats often extended into lunch, after which they would part ways.

But the serenity ended when Stanley received a call in the early hours of the morning and blearily picked up the phone, pressing it to his ear. “What’ya want?”

“There’s been another murder. Two, actually. We need you to meet us outside Dusk 2 Dawn.”

He hadn’t remained sleepy for long.

After informing Fiddleford of the murders and throwing on whatever clothes were closest and cleanest, he arrived at the crime scene just a little before Fiddleford did. Upon stepping into convenience store, Fiddleford’s face immediately coloured a sickly green, probably from the foul odor that filled the building. The Duskerton’s had been dead for at least a couple of days. They had passed the rigor mortis stage of decomposition and were now beginning to rot. Stanley had chosen to wait outside for that very reason.

It was surreal, standing so close to two corpses. He hadn’t yet worked himself up to looking at them, but just knowing they were there made him feel uneasy and strangely vulnerable. He ran his hands up and down his arms and watched as Fiddleford did the same.

“You alright, Stanley?” Fiddleford asked.

“Kinda… grossed out, I guess,” he answered, curling his fingers into his trembling upper arms. Reminders of New Mexico flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked. “What about you? Are you okay?”

“Grossed out as well, but otherwise fine.” Fiddleford managed a smile. “Wasn’t really expecting the smell to be so strong when I stepped in there.”

“Me neither. I mean, when they opened the door, I-“ An involuntary burst of laughter leapt from Stanley’s throat instead of words. It was completely mirthless, the sort of laughter that was born of overwhelming anxiety rather than recognition of something amusing. He cleared his throat and scratched at the nape of his neck. “Sorry. Christ, this is just really fucked up. I bought bread here just a few days ago, and now they’re…”

“It’s alright, Stanley.” Fiddleford reached over to squeeze his shoulders. “I did some huntin’ when I was a kid, so this isn’t as bad as it could be for me. I’m pretty familiar with corpses. But this is the first time you’ve ever encountered something like this, right? So being disturbed is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Stanley dropped his hand to Fiddleford’s wrist, lightly holding it. It had all the comfort of holding someone’s hand without the uncomfortably intimate implications. “I’ve seen some awful shit. I’ve seen someone dying, but not… not this far along. I never really thought about what happened after when I saw stuff like that.” His eyes dropped to the ground, a little sheepish. “Fuck, I’ve been to three different prisons. You’d think I could handle this a little better.”

“I think you’re handing it just fine,” Fiddleford said, and his hands were warm around Stanley shoulders. “You haven’t vomited, you haven’t run away. You’re stronger than you think.”

If his face weren’t so cold that all the capillaries had frozen over, Stanley might have blushed. “Do you have a side job as an inspirational speaker or something? Because you’re damn good at it.”

“No, but I _am_ a father. It’s basically the same thing.”

“Are you two done ruminating?” Ray asked from inside the convenience store. Ennis had opted to wait just outside it. “The bodies will be transferred to the morgue soon, and we need you two to take a look before that.”

Stanley readied himself with a couple of deep breaths. No one had ever believed in him before, but Fiddleford did, so he was going to power on through and do what needed to be done. “Okay,” he said, voice firm. “You know how on the TV, detectives have little evidence bags? Do you have some of those?”

“Of course we do.” Ennis dug into a duffle bag by his foot and extended a bundle of small, square bags to Stanley, and then offered him gloves, tweezers, and a camera. Stanley accepted them and handed half the items to Fiddleford. “The only problem is, we don’t actually have a laboratory in our station,” Ennis continued, pulling on his own set of gloves. They were large gloves, too big for him and Fiddleford, but perfectly sized for Stanley and Ray. “We’ve never needed one until now.”

“Shit, really?” Not only were the police incompetent, but so were the people who’d built their station. He rolled his eyes. “Do you at least have one of those microscope things?”

“We could see about buying one?” Ennis offered uncertainly.

Ray entered the scene with a look of incredulity. “With what money? We barely get paid as it is.”

“It’s alright, fellas,” Fiddleford spoke up. He removed his hands from Stanley’s shoulders and spun around to face them. “Me ‘n Stanford here have some equipment tucked away, I’m sure. I know there's a microscope in thee somewhere, so that’s a start.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Stanley to use Stanford’s equipment. He had all sorts of useful bits and bobs. Most of what Stanley had dug up had been put to use repairing the portal, but there were plenty of items he had yet to do anything with, primarily because he didn’t know how to use half the things Stanford owned.

“We’ll figure something out,” Stanley said, taking his first step into Dusk 2 Dawn. Ennis grabbed him by the arm before he could get any further.

“Put this under your nose.” He held up a container of some smelly gunky liquid. “It should make the smell a little more tolerable.”

Stanley did, and then handed the container to Fiddleford so he could do the same. Once their nostrils had been filled with the sharp scent of Betula lenta, they entered the convenience store side by side. Stanley felt his stomach roll over with nausea as they approached the two bodies tucked behind the counter. There was vomit splattered over the counter and across the tiled floor. Some poor bastard must have peered over to see what the source of the smell was and noticed them there.

He was a little surprised when Fiddleford knelt down and started digging into the hole in Mr. Duskerton’s head with the tweezers. The wet sounds produced by his probing disturbed Stanley. He swallowed, trying to keep his cool, and started to search the surrounding area for clues. There was no sign of a struggle. When he looked at the bodies, he didn’t see anything he could associate with resistance, either. The bodies were relatively untouched aside from the holes in their heads. Their perpetrator must have killed them without any preamble.

“Stanley.” Fiddleford wiggled a hand out to him. “I need one of the bags. I’ve got the bullets.”

“Oh, sure. Hang on.” Stanley had shoved everything into his pockets and the ends of the plastic bags were peeking out. He jutted a hip out to Fiddleford so they would be within reach. Arching an eyebrow, Fiddleford snagged one of the bags and carefully dropped two metal pellets into it. He'd grabbed Mrs. Duskerton's bullet as well.

“You look a little silly with your hip out like that,” Fiddleford observed.

Stanley glanced down at himself to check. He really did look silly, like he was the beginning of a mamba line. “Uh huh, shut up.” He readjusted his stance and dropped down onto his hunches beside Fiddleford. “I didn’t find anything useful. Not even a footprint. Doesn’t look like there was a struggle, though.”

“Our man – or woman – must be careful about how they go about their killings.” Fiddleford zipped up the bag containing the bullets and handed it to Stanley to carry. Somehow, he had become the leader of the investigation without any prior discussion.

“Not as careful as they coulda been if they left the bullets in. We can probably figure out what sort of gun uses them if they aren’t too damaged, yeah?”

“That might be a little hard without a database of some sort.”

“I’ve got a database. Sorta.” Stanley slid the bullets into his internal breast pocket. “I’m a pretty big gun enthusiast. Not much for shooting animals, but I have tons of little booklets about guns and bullets.”

“Good thing I handed that to you, then, because I know howta shoot a gun, but I’m lost when it comes to specifics.” Despite the circumstances, Stanley couldn’t help but grin. It was nice to be considered knowledgeable about something, even if that something was firearms.

He sat back on his heels and gave the Duskerton’s body’s one last perfunctory glance. Nothing caught his eye. He was kind of glad about that. He didn’t want to have to look at their bloated corpses any longer than necessary.

“So, is there something we can use to check for fingerprints or footprints or…?”

Fiddleford shook his head. “It looks like our killer was smart enough to stand behind the counter like a normal customer would before he shot them. We wouldn’t be able to distinguish anything with how often people come in and out of here.”

Something occurred to Stanley as he peered down at the placid faces of the Duskerton’s. “Maybe they knew the person? Maybe that’s why they died looking so calm?”

“That could be the case.” His voice sounded closer, and when Stanley raised his eyes, he found that it was because Fiddleford had moved nearer, edging forward. “We should probably write this all down somewhere,” he said in soft voice, like he was sharing a secret. “I know your brother has a whiteboard somewhere. We can drag that out and start listing things.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stanley agreed. He gestured for Fiddleford to stand, and Fiddleford did. After checking to make sure the bullets were still in his pocket, he stood up after him and started for the door. “We’ve got all the evidence we can find, I think. Let’s get outta here. Those bodies are giving me the willies.” He shuddered.

Ray and Ennis were waiting just outside. Ray had a cigarette hanging from his lips, smoke drifting into the air in great grey wisps, and Ennis had positioned himself just far enough to avoid breathing them in. He had a notebook out and was holding it under the dim light escaping from an overhead window.

“We’re gonna head to, uh… the laboratory?” It felt a little weird calling Stanford’s basement that. “Do you guys need the equipment back?”

Ennis turned his head, the light falling over it in a way that made his strangely-shaped face even stranger. The clef in his chin was unusually prominent. “No, that’s alright. You can return them to the station when you’ve finished with them.”

“We didn’t take any photos,” Fiddleford said, holding out the camera. “Could one of you do that for us?”

“I’ll do it.” Ray was the one to take the camera from him. He seemed to have more initiative than Ennis, at least in regards to getting things done. “We’ll send the photos to you once they’ve been developed. Shouldn’t take more than an afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

And then they descended into a sombre silence, turning to trudge away. Neither of them looked back at the convenience store that would never again be manned by Mr and Mrs Duskerton.

* * *

There was little organization to how Stanford stored his things. Vials full of foreign liquids were all shoved into the same racks, labelled in barely-decipherable script; there were so many books that Stanford had started to pile them in various areas throughout his laboratory; equipment was stuffed into drawers, cabinets, and onto shelves, some of it so dangerous that Fiddleford forced Stanley to wear gloves before he went diving into these places in search of what they needed.

The whiteboard didn’t take long to find, at least. They pulled it out from the corner Stanford must have haphazardly wheeled it into and wiped it clean of the nonsensical scribbles that covered every inch of white surface. Stanley made out a few vague things, ‘voice’, ‘help’, but tried not to dwell on them.

Once they had cleared the accumulated mess as well as could be expected of two men who weren’t being paid to clean, the basement started to resemble an actual laboratory. One in slight disarray, but a laboratory regardless. Fiddleford laid out everything they needed on two desks he had shoved together, led Stanley over to them, and sat him down.

“You work on finding out what type of bullets those are,” he began, picking up a marker. “And I’ll write everything we now know down on the whiteboard.”

Stanley’s booklets on firearms had been neatly set out for him next to the microscope. Stanley picked up the top-most one, opened it, and began to do the first honest bit of work he had in years.

He could only see Fiddleford out of the corner of his eye, but he noticed him glancing periodically at the portal, twitching.


	4. In which things only get worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is in the air! Along with fear and misery.

The morgue was freezing. That was to be expected of a morgue, of course, and Stanley didn’t really mind the chill. He would have sooner taken an ice bath than stepped into a morgue that stored their corpses at room temperature.

It was a little easier to look at Mr and Mrs Duskerton now that they resembled human popsicles. Which was fortunate, because he and Fiddleford were required to give them one last examination before they could be prepared for cremation. “Okay, well, we’ve looked ‘em over.” Stanley turned to the morgue attendant. “You can go ahead and wheel ‘em back into the freezer now, or throw ‘em into the fire, or whatever it is you do at this point.”

The attendant gave him a dry look. “Thank you for your time, Detective Pines. In this trying time, outside help is very much appreciated.” Detective, huh? Fancy. The man nodded to Fiddleford. “And you, Detective Mcgucket. You two can leave now.” Before they could turn to depart, the attendant stalled them with a raised hand. “Oh, and I believe Ennis and Ray are waiting to hear from you. They’ll be at the station.”

It was evening and they’d had a busy week, and all Stanley really wanted to do was go home and sit down in front of the telly. Maybe pick up the chicken special from Greasy’s Diner before he went home. There were half-decent sandwiches at the police station, but those weren’t enough to lure him there.

Fiddleford took notice when he rubbed at his eyes and he heard the man say, “I can go on my own. I think Stanley deserves a break; he’s been working on this case longer than I have, after all.”

The attendant shrugged. “Sure. Go. As long as they receive a report, I don’t care whose mouth it comes from.”

Stanley sent Fiddleford a sideward grin. “You’re a savior, Fids. I’ll take you out for coffee tomorrow morning.“

“You’d better,” Fiddleford said, elbowing him and walking ahead to open the door. They parted ways once outside and Stanley immediately went home, threw up his legs, and turned on the telly for a long night of mind-numbing sitcoms. He wanted to catch up on the latest M*A*S*H and All in the Family.

He ended up so enthralled with his programs that he completely forgot to dash out between shows to grab himself a chicken special. Instead of a proper meal, he dug a carton of neapolitan ice-cream out of Stanford’s freezer and gobbled down what little remained of the chocolate section. Having been in the freezer for several months, it tasted a little stale, but Stanley was too busy laughing at Hawkeye’s witticisms to care.

He was startled out of his recliner by a heavy pounding at the front door. Being that there was a serial killer in town, his first instinct was to grab the taser and hold it in front of him like a spear. He didn’t have a gun to brandish. For all his enthusiasm regarding firearms, he hadn’t the money to actually buy himself a gun. Not at this point in time, anyway. He held his breath to silence any involuntary sounds he might make and took a slow step toward the entrance hallway.

The floorboards creaked under his weight. He winced, continuing forth on legs that felt jelly-like. A loud “open up!” was suddenly thrown out among the rapid-fire knocking and Stanley instantly recognized it as Fiddleford’s voice. It was shrill with panic. At the sound of it, Stanley himself began to panic, dashing into the hallway and up to the door, throwing it open so hard it slammed a dent into the wall.

Fiddleford was disheveled and out of breath. “The killer!” he burst out. “The Killer! He got Susan! He killed her!”

“What? When!?” Tossing the taser back into a pocket, Stanley dragged Fiddleford inside by one of his thin, trembling arms and peered out over his shoulder and into the yard. As far as he could tell, no one had followed him.

Stanley didn’t bother to shut the door. He expected they would be leaving once Fiddleford divulged what he knew.

The man had gone limp in his grip. He heaved him upright, steadying him. “Calm down, Fids,” he murmured, trying to work his voice into something soft and soothing. He squeezed Fiddleford’s shoulders just like Fiddleford had done to him at the convenience store. “Tell me what happened.”

Fiddleford took a couple of large, gulping breaths before he spoke. “C-customers said she wasn’t responding to the bell. I was there getting some dinner. Ennis was there too.” He broke off into a whimper, huge glassy eyes staring down at Stanley. “God, her blood was everywhere. It was still spreading across the floor when we entered the back room. We stepped in it before we saw her.”

Stanley’s gaze dropped to Fiddleford’s boots. The soles were indeed covered in blood, leaving smudges of red on his floor. “Was she still alive?”

“No.” Relief flooded Fiddleford’s voice. “No, she was dead. Died instantly just like everyone else. But her eye was damaged.”

“Damaged? How?”

“The lazy one. It’d been taken out.”

The first tour of the shack flashed to mind: Susan leaning over to examine one of Stanford’s devices, being zapped. It was a story she regularly told patrons of her diner. A cold chill descended on Stanley. “W-what-“ He swallowed, steeled himself, and tried again. “What do you mean, taken out? By accident?”

“No, it – it was scooped out,” Fiddleford choked. The words weren’t coming to him with any amount of ease. “They killed her, then they scooped it right out.”

“Oh, shit,” Stanley gasped, jerking back in horror at what he had just heard. “Oh shit, oh shit,” went his refrain of despair. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

“Stanley.” Fiddleford was the one doing the steadying now. His thin hands curled into Stanley’s jacket, gently bracing him against the hallway wall. His hands should have been cold in this sort of weather, but they were warm. His fingers felt like long bands of silk, binding warmth into his rigid muscles. “Stanley, are you alright?”

Stanley’s hair had grown to be long enough that it streaked over his cheeks as he shook his head. “This killer hasn’t done anything like this before, right? The only reason they would do something like this is because they knew I would notice a connection.” He swallowed, feeling as though his guts were dropping down one leg.

“What connection? Why do you mean?”

As he spoke, Fiddleford’s breaths layered moisture over his face. Stanley hadn’t noticed how close he had gotten.

He licked the slickness off of his lips, and then said resignedly, “She wasn’t Lazy Susan before she met me. Maybe they know I’m working on the case.” His voice became uncharacteristically quiet; it was all he could do to keep himself calm. “Maybe she’s dead because she knew me.”

“Stanley, no,” Fiddleford soothed. “It’s not your fault.”

“But what if it is?” A tremor coiled up his spine. “I - I killed my brother, and now she-“

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said firmly. He reached up to lift Stanley’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently aligning their eyes. “You didn’t kill your brother, and you didn’t kill Susan. Stanford brought on his fate himself, and Susan – you didn’t put the bullet in her head, so you didn’t kill her, inadvertently or otherwise. ”

They were so close now that their foreheads were almost touching. He could feel the heat radiating off of Fiddleford’s temples. “Do you think they did that, though, to get to me…?”

“It’s possible, but you shouldn’t worry yourself.” Fiddleford leaned in that little bit closer, bumping foreheads, and Stanley felt strangely comforted by the proximity. “I’m going to stay the night. And I’m not asking you: I’m telling you, because I know you like to pretend you don’t need anyone but yourself.”

Stanley laughed hoarsely. “Y’know me too well for a guy who only met me last month.”

“Stanford did talk about you.” The edges of Fiddleford’s mouth curved slightly. “He even showed me a photo, once. You were both so small and happy. I thought it was adorable.”

It startled Stanley to learn his brother had kept a photo of them. As far as he was aware, their relationship had been irrevocably damaged the day he broke the Perpetual Motion Machine. He hadn’t expected his brother to think about him at all, except perhaps in passing.

“That’s… well. Okay.” That was all the response Stanley managed to voice, and it was all Stanley wanted to voice; there were more important things to focus on right now. His relationship with his brother could wait. “We should collect evidence now, shouldn’t we? While the body’s, u-uh…you know...” A tense pause followed his stutter, and then Stanley said, “Fresh.”

It felt wrong to refer to Susan’s corpse that way, but he couldn’t think of an appropriate synonym. Crisp? Clear? Raw?

Fiddleford didn’t appear to mind. “Let’s grab the equipment. Don’t worry about looking for a camera; Ennis will have already taken some photos.”

Greasy’s Diner was surrounded by tightly packed crowds of people when they arrived. Spotting them, Ray and Ennis stepped out and began trying to disperse the curious bystanders, ushering them away with raised hands and loud voices. “Everyone go home! This is a crime scene! We need you to leave!”

He and Fiddleford waited until the crowd had thinned to a dribble before they circled around to the back entrance and entered. The sweet smell of spoilage assaulted his nostrils; some fruits had been dropped and had begun to rot. Once they were close enough to the body, the smell of the fruit mingled with the faint odor of blood, and it wasn’t as disgusting a scent as Stanley felt it should have been. In fact, it was almost pleasant. Upon thinking this, Stanley wrinkled his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth instead.

Which didn’t turn out to be one of his better ideas, as he gagged when he saw the gorey hole that had become of Susan’s left eye. The only thing to leave his mouth was a long line of spittle. He wiped it away with a jacket sleeve, and Fiddleford moved up to rub his back, between his shoulder blades. Self-conscious, he shoved Fiddleford off and knelt to retrieve the bullet, to see if it was the same type as the other two. “I was gonna wait ‘till tomorrow, but they’re using a handgun, 9mm bullets. There’s nowhere to buy guns in town, so they wouldn’t have bought it here. They would have had to go to one of the surrounding cities.”

“They could have bought it illegally?” Fiddleford suggested.

Stanley took his tweezers from his pocket, positioning it over the wound in Susan’s head. Don’t look at the eye. Don’t look at the eye. “Illegally? In Gravity Falls? This place is like a fuckin’ kindergarten. People don’t do that sort of shit here.”

“There’s a murderer in town, and you _still_ think this place is like a kindergarten?”

“Okay, you have a point.” In slid the tweezers, right into that disgusting, bloody hole in Susan’s head. Little bits of skull and brain matter stuck themselves to his fingernails as he pressed down, and it was a miracle he didn’t vomit right then and there. Maybe he was going through the first stages of desensitization.

“We should check all avenues, just in case.” Fiddleford stood off to the side, observing as Stanley grimaced and groaned while maneuvering the tweezers. His expression was one of sympathy.

“Ye-yeah,” Stanley said breathlessly, and he wanted to lick his lips, wet them, but he was irrationally afraid they had Susan’s blood on them, so he didn’t. “We could ask around tomorrow.”

Fiddleford extended a bag to Stanley as he came up with the bullet. “Do you want me to finish up here? I’ve got some fingerprint powder on hand, so I might be able to find something.” The bag was taken from his hand, and Stanley dropped the bullet inside and pocketed it. After a moment, Fiddleford continued, “It’s unlikely it’ll be in any database if our perp’s a Gravity Fall’s native, but it’s worth a try.”

“Why’d my brother have that stuff, anyway?”

“You’d be surprised by what your brother kept on hand.” Fiddleford’s voice always sounded dull or angry when he spoke of Stanford. Now was no different. “He had an entire cabinet dedicated to sedatives. It was one hell of a weird thing to stumble upon.”

“If you think that’s weird, you shoulda seen how he was as a kid!” Stanley snorted. “For a while he used to like pinning butterflies. Like, just pinning them to a board in our room, and sometimes they were still fluttering when he put them there. It was real creepy, so he eventually stopped.” He was careful not to touch the floor as he rose, hands planted firmly on his thighs. “Then he got into this other nerd thing I didn’t understand, but I tried to humor him anyway. I think he knew I didn’t understand it, though. He just didn’t say ‘cus he didn’t want to upset me.” He shrugged a shoulder. “We had a pretty good relationship back then.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?” The question was tentatively spoken. Fiddleford clearly didn’t want to overstep his boundaries, though he was visibly curious.

Stanley didn’t intend for the line of his shoulders to raise and tense, but they did. Fiddleford was right to be cautious. The subject was an incredibly sensitive one. “It doesn’t matter.” He took a retreating step backwards. “It’s not the time to talk about it, anyway. Shouldn’t be chatting over the dead.” Another step. He wasn’t exactly subtle when he wanted to leave a situation.

Fiddleford turned away in silent agreement. “I’ll meet you back at your place in, say… an hour?”

“See you then.” Stanley left the room before he could see Fiddleford sink to the ground, his long thin fingers probing the area around Susan’s missing eye.

Before he stepped out, he stood in the doorway and surveyed the area, and it was this paranoia that led Stanley to peeking into the tin garbage bins. First out of suspicion there could a body stuffed into one of them, and then in search of whatever it was the perp had used to remove Susan’s eye. To have left the surrounding area so clean, he couldn’t have done the extraction with his fingers.

There wasn’t anything in there except for an unpleasant mushy concoction of half-eaten pancakes and toast, and that was after Stanley had torn open the bags to look inside, just to be certain. Their perp was a little smarter than he was giving them credit for.

Perhaps a different bin?

Far be it for Stan to complain about getting dirty, but after his fifth bin, his motivation began to wane. There were only so many garbage bins he could tear into before it became tedious. If he did it for long enough, the next front page would feature a serial bin scavenger rather than the serial killer.

But then he struck gold. Inside one bin he discovered a glove coated in a thin layer of blood, glutinous in consistency. There was no doubt it belonged to their perp. He giddily plucked it out from the bottom of the bin and wrapped it in a pack of tissues he kept in his back pocket; he was halfway across town, so he didn’t want to have to walk all the way back to Greasy’s Diner for a bag, especially as there was no guarantee Fiddleford would still be there.

He wasn’t sure Fiddleford would be at the shack, either, as he had spent an inordinate amount of time searching through people’s garbage. He smelt awful. He would have to rinse down before he resumed watching television. Not that he minded terribly, but he didn’t want the smell to permeate the couch.

The trip back to the shack was uneventful and Stanley was grateful for that. Arriving at his house, however, was not; he’d forgotten to close the front door. This entire time, it had been wide open. Anyone could have walked straight inside.

The killer could be in there, waiting for him.

He didn’t have a gun on him to defend himself, and he knew the killer did. The killer had a pistol. Probably with an attached silencer, so he wouldn’t even hear it coming. His skin prickled with a hot, nervous sweat that seemed impervious to the frigid weather. It was the same feeling he’d had while chewing his way out a trunk, frightened and trapped. But he wasn’t trapped, was he? He could turn around and run away. He could go to the police station. He didn’t have to enter his house if he was afraid.

A door creaked open. Like a deer in headlights, Stanley froze. His body went from hot to cold and then began to tremble with a nervous energy. Adrenaline was screaming at him; _run run run! You can get away! Just move!_

“Stanley?”

The top half of Fiddleford’s head peeked out from behind a door frame. After confirming it was indeed Stanley at the door, Fiddleford stepped out into view.

All the nervous energy that had gathered in Stanley slowly drizzled away. By the time he had willed himself to enter his house and shut – lock – his front door, he found himself feeling empty and dazed. His stomach gurgled. He hadn’t eaten, had he?

“Stanley, there’s a banana peel on your shoulder.”

As he brushed the peel off his shoulder, to the carpet, his stomach ceased gurgling. Even his internal organs couldn’t stand the sight or smell of him. He wasn’t usually a man prone to fits of shyness over hygiene, or a lack thereof, but he had come to value Fiddleford’s opinion and didn’t like the pinched way the man was looking at him.

“Yeah, I went rooting around some bins hopin’ to find the scoop.” He offered this as explanation and then hurried past to thump his way up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “If y’have any idea how to cook, make some dinner! ‘Cus otherwise, I’m gonna have to eat my jerky reserves tonight!”

Fiddleford’s reply didn’t manage to reach him before he’d shut himself in the bathroom. It was a good thing Stanford favored his scented shampoos, because pouring it over himself – over his hair, over his body – was the only way he was able to smother the scent of garbage. Some time later, he entered the kitchen wearing his usual pyjamas and smelling strongly of apple.

Fiddleford greeted him with a plate of butter chicken. “Y’didn’t have much in the fridge, but I managed to whip up this. It’s my boy’s favorite.”

No one had cooked for him in _years_. The smell of chicken smothered in a tangy sauce was a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost the day he had been evicted from his home. He smiled sadly, taking the plate from Fiddleford’s outstretched hands. “Thanks.”

“I made some for myself, too. I thought we could watch some telly together since I’ll be staying the night.”

He’d almost forgotten about that arrangement. “Hey, you made me dinner. You can stay as long as you want.” Stanley fumbled around in his cutlery drawer for a knife and fork. “Y’can even come tomorrow after we’ve been to the morgue if you cook me up some braised steak with mash.”

Fiddleford picked up his own plate of food, chuckling. “I just might do that.”

They sat down just in time to catch the last ten minutes of M*A*S*H, and then settled in for a showing of Charlies Angels.

* * *

Stanley wasn’t sure when it was he’d fallen asleep, but he was rudely awakened by pain lacing up his thighs and buttocks, so it must have been at least a few hours. Pain often developed if he spent too much time sitting in his recliner. Today, however, he woke up to an additional pain; his arm was numb and tingling because Fiddleford’s head was propped up against it. His sandy hair was delicately sprayed across his forehead and his eyes were closed. Stanley swallowed, eyes dropping lower. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his immaculate dress shirt was barely perceptible, but they were so close that, in a strange way, it was hard not to notice.

That was what he told himself, anyway.

The prominent edge of a collarbone teased at his vision as he peered past Fiddleford's shirt collar and he twisted away, face turning a furious red. Fiddleford didn’t stir. Instead, his body made the impeccably inconvenient decision to slide down into Stanley’s lap. Fuck. Oh fuck. Oh no, this was bad. One arm and both his legs were trapped beneath Fiddleford’s torso, and he would inevitably wake Fiddleford to the sight of him blushing like a school girl if he tried to move.

Worse yet, it didn’t take long for his limbs to start to fall asleep. First his arm, and then his legs. The sensation was extremely uncomfortable, a burning tingle that ran up the length of each trapped limb and merged with the ache already present in his thighs and ass. The discomfort should have cleared his face of colour, but there mere thought of clearing his face of colour served only to make it worse.

He dropped his head back and looked up at the ceiling. The position was supremely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t tempted to stare at Fiddleford this way. The man was unfairly attractive. Long lashes; a soft, pink mouth. It was entirely unfair that those features belonged to a man, because if Fiddleford had been a woman he wouldn’t have had this problem. Society had taught him how to address attraction to women. It hadn’t taught him how to address attraction to men.

The only thing he could do at this point was try to sleep. Even after having napped, he was still tired. His body would find sleep eventually, like it always did. Living in a cell with three men and two cots had taught him to adapt.

He wedged his head between his neck and shoulder and closed his eyes. The television was still on, blaring some late night program he didn’t recognized, but he was easily able to tune it out. Another skill honed while incarcerated in a Columbian prison.

When Fiddleford exhaled, it breached the denim of his trousers, and he could feel the warmth of it on his thigh even in its deadened state. It managed to be more of a nuisance than both the television and his aching limbs. Primarily because the warmth was going straight to his gut, and then to his face. He grasped the arm of the chair with his free hand, completely miserable. All the bad things always happened to him. His future had been predetermined for him and it was terrible. Only in his dreams would he not do stupid shit like be on the verge of getting a boner while a sleeping man had their head in his lap.

Coincidentally, he wasn’t awake for much longer after this thought, and his dreams were indeed a great deal more pleasant than his reality. And far more explicit in regards to how exactly he felt about Fiddleford.


	5. Seeing RED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up! Warning for sexual themes in this one!

It was the chill of early morning that woke Stanley next. He blinked and stared blearily across the room, unable to discern any detailed shapes. A thin sheen of gunk over his eyes had turned his lounge room into a series of distorted blurs. He yawned and lifted a hand to his face to clean the gunk away, and then froze; it was the trapped arm. It wasn’t trapped anymore.

Fiddleford was gone.

He jerked upright so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. With the return of awareness came pain, his legs and arm feeling as thought they were burning as blood surged through squashed veins. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, but it was harder to get used to than the others. He groaned, wiggling his fingers and toes to will some life back into them.

If he was in this much pain, Fiddleford couldn’t have left all that long ago.

His first steps away from the couch were a stumble, his hands involuntarily rising to find purchase on the nearest surface. He ended finding his balance before he could pitch forward into the television, but his legs continued to trouble him all the way up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he took a piss. At least _one_ part of him below the hips wasn’t numb.

His hand rolled over a lump in his back pocket as he went to adjust his trousers. Confused, he dug into it, dragging out a wad of tissues wrapped around… the glove! Shit, he’d been sitting on it all night! That explained the unique ache that had developed in his left buttock.

He carefully removed the tissue and then threw the sweat-sticky scraps into and around his bathroom bin. Any evidence they might have been able to draw from the glove had probably been contaminated, but Stanley took it down to the basement regardless. It could still be used as a reference for their killers approximate hand size. With this, they might even be able to determine their gender.

There had still been remnants of blood on the glove, and some of it had brushed off onto his fingers, dry and flaky from its overnight stay in his trousers. Once upstairs, he gave his hands a thorough wash in the kitchen sink. He didn’t dare do it in the shower. He didn’t want Susan’s blood to rivulet down his body and into the crevices of his skin.

Susan’s blood, he repeated to himself. He had her blood on his hands, under his fingernails, because she was dead now. With all that had happened yesterday, he hadn’t really had the chance to process just what this meant.

There would be no more coffee runs at Greasy’s Diner. There would be no more bacon pancakes on Thursdays. There would be no more Lazy Susan smiling at him sunnily as he passed her in the street.

There would be none of these things because Susan was dead.

She was dead.

 _Dead_.

His posture broke under an assault of several emotions and he clenched his fists around the rim of the sink, glaring down at it as if it were somehow to blame for his grief.

“Calm down,” he growled at himself. “She wasn’t your girlfriend. She was barely even a friend. Calm the fuck down.” Scolding himself didn’t make him feel any better, nor did it make the grief go away. After everything that had happened to him, all the loss, one less smile in his world just seemed like one too few.

And people were going to continue dying. They were going to continue dying because he wasn’t smart enough to find the killer. He’d never been smart enough. They’d asked for Stanford Pines, the Genius, and instead they’d gotten _him_.

He should have been the one thrown into that portal. The world needed a Stan _ford_ Pines; it didn’t need a Stan _ley_ Pines.

Tears pearled beneath his eyelashes. He dropped forward, head against the windowsill, and thumped his skull into the wood until the pain drove away the urge to sob. He’d cried himself dry the night he’d lost Stanford. He didn’t want to cry again.

His throat clenched around a lump that had developed, but he managed to pour himself a glass of water and force it down. He could feel it in his stomach, sloshing around. A cool weight that did little to improve his mood. It’s only benefit was that it provided a distraction, and it was enough of one that Stanley gradually felt the urge to cry begin to recede.

It was several minutes before enough self-control had returned to Stanley for a quick stumble and drop into the closest kitchen chair. There was still a faint ache in his muscles, unnoticeable until he had bent at the waist. He didn’t pay it much mind as he sat there, and remained sitting there, staring out the window and into the pine forest beyond for a length of time he couldn’t exactly quantify. When he finally did move, his body had resumed normal function. His moment of hysteria was over.

With his mind clear, he remembered Fiddleford. The man wasn’t still in the house, somewhere, or he would have seen him by now. That was a relief. Stanley had finally caught a whiff of himself and he smelt _rancid_. Not only did he still smell very faintly of dumpster, but he hadn’t worn a different pair of pyjamas in almost a month. He preferred to be clean now that he had a plentiful source of hot water, but ten years of lax hygiene habits were a hard thing to kick; the poor and destitute didn’t lose conservative habits overnight. Most of them didn’t lose them at all.

He dragged his sleeves over his eyes to wipe away any remaining moisture before leaving the kitchen. After a hot shower and a clean change of clothes, he was ready to go searching for his bespectacled conquest.

* * *

The Greasy Diner was more or less empty, with only a lethargic cleaner mopping the floors in the back and Ray sitting in a corner-most booth, hunched over a cup of coffee he must have made himself. As Stanley strode through the diner from the back entrance, Ray lifted his head, “What’re you doing here, Pines? The body’s been moved to the morgue.”

“Lookin’ for Fiddleford. We have some questioning to do,” he answered, making no attempt to hide that he didn’t particularly care to speak to Ray. Neither Ray nor Ennis were people he considered friends. They were acquaintances, at best. “Did he come by here at all?”

This question brought undue hostility to Ray’s demeanor. “Of course not,” he said tersely. “Fiddleford has more sense than to go walking into a crime scene.”

What was that supposed to be? A slight against him? Was his brain to mouth filter so faulty that even what he perceived as an innocuous question came out as provocative? Stanley folded his arms in dismay. “Oh, come on. You came in here first!”

“ _I’m_ supposed to be here. I’m the one who arranged the cleaner,” Ray retorted.

“Yeah, well…” he didn’t actually have a response to that. He scuffed his heel into the floor, filling the silence with the sound of his boots squealing on the floorboards. Ray watched him do this, unimpressed.

“Mr. Pines,” Ray began, sighing. “ _Stanford_ , just keep in mind not to go flippantly wandering into crime scenes, alright? You could get me and Ennis into trouble if you continue doing that.”

“Fine,” was his reluctant reply. He hated authority figures, especially those who wore a badge. “Can y’just tell me where Fid’s is?

Ray picked up his coffee and took a lengthy sip before he replied. What an ass. “If you want to find Fiddleford, I suggest going by his house. If he’s not there, he’s probably at the morgue or the police station.”

“Right, whatever.” He could have figured that out without Ray’s help.

“One more thing.”

Stanley made a noise of impatience. “Yeah?”

“Me and Ennis will do the questioning. You’ve helped us enough for the time being.”

“Alright. Whatever.” Twisting around, he grabbed a handful of stale muffins out of the selection bar (if he didn’t eat them, who would?), shoved a chocolate chip one into his mouth, and stalked his way back outside through the rear-most exit.

Three of the five muffins he’d managed to grab were gone by the time he reached the Mcgucket household. Dropping the remaining confectioneries into his jacket pocket, he stepped up to the veranda, to the front door, where he came to a squealing halt.

It was ajar. The implications of that troubled Stanley, brought a cold sweat to the back of his neck, but it wasn’t as volatile a panic as what had rushed thought him yesterday when he’d found his own door open. He would remain calm but cautious until he was sure something was wrong, least he make a fool of himself again.

A slither of Fiddleford’s lounge room could be seen through the gap, decorated in dark shades of green and yellow. A little sickly looking, he thought. Whoever the initial owners had hired as a decorator ought to have their eyesight reassessed, because he didn’t think it possible for Fiddleford to be responsible for something this atrocious.

Stanley didn’t dawdle for long. He wasn’t the sort of man who let silly things like The Law get in his way, so he nudged the door open with a knee and invited himself inside, walking straight into the middle of the lounge room. It looked even worse from his new vantage point. He hadn’t been able to see the mustard curtains from the veranda, and they outranked all others as the worst feature in the room.

As he tread his way through the lounge room, he couldn’t shake how quiet the house was. Even his footsteps were silenced by the plush carpet. All he could hear were his own breaths, slow and unsteady. He wanted to clear his throat, to create some sound, but he was suddenly very afraid of who might be listening if he did. There were so many places a person could hide in a house this size.

 _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm_ , he repeated this ad nauseum. If he said it enough, maybe the anxiety would go away.

The furthest parts of the house were noticeably dark. No lights on, no windows open. It was as if someone was trying to hide something-

And he was right.

Dozens of bright red eyes littered Fiddleford’s kitchen walls, all dripping, all with a cross slashed through their middle. He turned so fast he tripped over his own feet, barely managing to maintain balance long enough to slam into a counter rather than the ground. A plate went sliding off the surface, shattering on the vinyl flooring. The sharp sound of it breaking propelled him into a full-throttle panic. He shoved himself off the counter, limbs tense and shaking, barely able to maneuver his legs in the direction he wanted to go. One of the muffins tumbled out of his pocket.

He needed to find Fiddleford. What if he was-!

“Fiddleford! Fids!” His voice bellowed out, flinging itself off the walls and back at him. He hadn’t noticed how insular the house was. His toe caught on a door frame as he threw himself through it, ripping a snarl of swear words from his throat. Over the sound of his own voice growling out profanities, he heard curtains rustle and a door swing open. A great swell of vapor billowed out in front of him like mists ascending a mountain, and two pale legs parted it in quick strides.

When he looked up, he saw the no-longer-bespectacled face of Fiddleford Mcgucket staring back at him, bewildered and clearly unamused.

The maybe two to three inch height difference between them was emphasized when coupled with that look. He felt even smaller when the moisture from what had undoubtedly been a hot shower cleared to unveil Fiddleford’s naked body. A pale, narrow stomach led down to two long legs, between which was a… his eyes darted back up to mildly-muscled pecs with light hairs between. If Fiddleford noticed him looking, he didn’t care. He stood there, completely on show, with not a hint of shame.

Meanwhile, Stanley thought he might spontaneously combust with how red he was. He and his brother’s bodies had always had a natural predilection for humiliating them. It was something that ran in the family if the childhood stories their father had regaled them with were anything to go by.

At last, Fiddleford spoke. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Stanley.” The bewilderment had been brushed away and replaced with something unexpectedly warm and welcoming.

“Uh, um,” began Stanley stupidly, pulling his body upright. “Your door was open, so I thought I’d check on ya.”

“Oh. I see.” Fiddleford glanced over his shoulder, into the kitchen, but made no mention of the eyes. “Tate must have left it open when his mother picked him up. He’s just tall enough to reach it, now.”

“Yeah, that- that explains things.” An awkward smile pulled at his lips. “Uh, how old is he now, then? Four?”

“That’s right. He turned four just before you arrived here.”

Stanley couldn’t believe they were discussing Fiddleford’s son and ex-wife while the man was standing before him with all his _assets_ on show. Stanley swallowed, his next words coming out in a stumble, “T-that’s great. Four’s a good number.”

‘Four’s a good number’? God, he was such an idiot. The only thing that could possibly make this situation any worse was getting aroused, which was hard not to do with a wet Fiddleford Mcgucket standing before him and wow what a nice big dick, it’d probably be heavy if he were to take it into his hand, and when it swelled all veiny and red it’d probably be as dark as a stop sign.

Shit, he was looking again.

To his relief, he saw Fiddleford’s cheeks were dusted pink when he readjusted himself.

“You were in my kitchen a moment ago, right?” Fiddleford asked, voice soft.

Stanley glanced over his shoulder. He could see the plate he had broken from where they were standing. “I broke a plate, but I think you got worse things to worry about. Someone went and fucked up your walls, drew eyes all over them with blood.”

“It’s spray-paint.”

“Huh?”

“I spray painted the eyes on my wall.”

Stanley gave him a wan smile, mostly confusion. “ _You_ painted the eyes?”

“I just said I did, didn’t I,” Fiddleford replied, calm and accommodating. He must have been cold standing out in the hallway like that, wet and naked, but he didn’t look like he minded all that much.

“That’s, uh- a weird way to decorate, Fids.” He felt a prickle of discomfort rise on his skin. “Stanford didn’t make you mess up your kitchen, did he? Make you draw all those eyes? He was kinda chin-deep in crazy when I found him.”

Fiddleford shook his head, droplets flying off the muted yellow of his hair. “Only inadvertently. I did it not long after I’d seen beyond the portal, during a fit of some sort.” He swiped some water off his upper arms. “But I’m rather cold, Stanley, and I have a shower to get back to. Mind if we pick this up later?”

Too polite, this one. If he wanted to get back into the shower he should have just tottered on in and slammed the door on Stanley. He hadn’t needed to stand in the cold hallway and accommodate Stanley’s curiosity and paranoia. “No, geeze. Go. Shower. I’ll just…” He shuffled in place. “Leave you to it.”

“Hang on for just a moment.” Fiddleford slowly turned, perhaps deliberately, and leaned to peer into his bathroom. It put his nicely shaped legs and ass on show. “My shower’s large enough for two people, if you’d like to join me?”

“W-what?”

Fiddleford dropped back into place in front of him, extending a hand. “I’m inviting you to have a shower with me. But if you’re not interested…?”

Like fuck he was going to let an opportunity like this pass him by! With one hand he began tugging at the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down over his meaty thighs, to his knees, and with the other he held Fiddleford’s outstretched hand. He had to hop his way into the bathroom, his pants around his knees, while Fiddleford patiently guided him out of the way of any solid objects.


	6. Who needs enemies when you have coworkers like these

They were perched on a lone bench facing Gravity Fall’s river, each drinking coffee from a foam cup; one black with three sugars, one white with none. Three days had passed since the ‘shower incident’, as Stanley had dubbed it. He’d been pleased to find Fiddleford was very enthusiastic when it came to using his mouth, and that having a cock in you wasn’t nearly as bad as all the prison jokes made it sound. It was pretty amazing, actually. He’d gone home that evening elated with a boyish glee.

“So, the creepy eyes in your kitchen,” Stanley started. This seemed as good a time as any to broach the subject. “What’s with those?”

Fiddleford licked some cream from his drink off the tips of his fingers. Stanley stared. It seemed inherently sexual, though clearly Fiddleford didn’t intend it to be. “You remember what my answer was before, right? There isn’t much more to add onto it. I saw the other side of the portal, and for a while there, I was in a bad ways.”

“Like Stanford?” Stanley asked.

Fiddleford gave his head a shake. “Worse. He became more hostile, I – I went more the ‘losing my mind’ route.” The tremor in his voice suggested this was a difficult subject for him. As Stanley was already watching his fingers, he noticed they had begun to twitch.

“What’d they mean, though?” he persisted. He was just too curious to let the subject drop.

“I’m sure you noticed I’d crossed them out.” Fiddleford set his drink on his knee and worried the rim with his twitching fingers. “They’re unconscious manifestations of my desire to forget. I don’t even remember drawing most of them. It’s a case of dissociation, I think.”

“Manifestations? Dissociation? What?”

Fiddleford smiled, seeming put at ease by Stanley’s juvenile grasp of vocabulary. “It felt a lil’ like I’d detached from my own body. So periods of doing things and feeling nothing, other periods of just black. I was inconsolable for about two months.”

Stanley tilted his head. “Then what happened?”

“My wife threatened to cut off all access to my child, so I pieced my life back together.” He turned his head and stared across the lake. “I function relatively well, now. Not enough to return to work, but well enough that I’m eating regularly and showering more than once a week.”

“Rough ride you had there, Fids.” He sounded genuinely sympathetic. Not a tone often used by Stanley Pines, but one this situation warranted. “My brother always did have a hard time looking beyond his own ass.”

“Aspirations.”

“Those too.” He knew what _that_ word meant because his teachers had always said he didn’t have any and never would.

Fiddleford brought his coffee to his mouth, swallowing a mouthful. “I think I deserve to hear a story from _your_ life, now.”

“Sure, why not.” Stanley had plenty of stories to tell, and Fiddleford was an age appropriate audience for them. “Pick a period: childhood, adulthood, and now-times.”

“Adulthood.”

Not unexpected considering it was the only period of his life that didn’t feature Stanford. “I got ten years to choose from, and lemme tell you, those were a _busy_ ten years.” He drummed his fingers on the lid of his drink. His encounters with La Eme, the Spanish Mafia, would knock Fiddleford right out of his fancy shoes.

He opened his mouth to begin, his jaw hanging loose around the word 'well'. That was as far as he got. He couldn't think of a single story in which he hadn't played a simpering, cowardly role, and he didn't think Fiddleford would want to listen to him describe himself pleading for mercy as he was tossed into the trunk of a car.

There were always the failed schemes. The heists. Prison. He wasn’t sure Fiddleford would want to hear about any of those either, though. He was really proper, like a real gentleman. He would probably want to hear about pugs and eyeglasses or something.

“How do you feel about prison stories?” he asked, tentative. Might as well go with what he knew.

“You’ve got my attention,” Fiddleford replied. He’d turned back to face Stanley, and he did look intrigued.

Stanley felt encouraged. “I was incarcerated a few years back, ‘cus apparently stealing from parking meters is illegal.” Lousy parking meter cops. Then they’d uncovered the rest of his dubious past, but he didn’t mention any of that. “Anyway, I ended up in a cell with these guys named Rico and Jorge. I know a little Spanish, enough to get my by, and they basically threatened to kill me on my first day there.”

“You know Spanish?”

“Oh, yeah.” It hadn’t even occurred to him to tell Fiddleford where and how he’d learned Spanish. It was one of the few stories he could tell without incriminating himself. “I met this guy in New Mexico, Rick Sanchez. Real piece of work, that guy. Reminds me a little of you, except taller and usually drunk or high.”

“How were you acquainted?” Fiddleford asked.

Stanley chuckled; for all that he insulted Rick, the memories he had of him were good ones. “We ran into each other in a bar. Literally. We were both drunk, then we fought a little. We both got in some good punches. Wasn’t real fair on me since he had over a foot on me, but whatever.” He smiled wistfully. “After we’d beat each other up we stumbled back to his place and fooled around a bit. Then I stayed for a couple of months. He was a real piece of work, though, I tell ya.”

Fiddleford’s smile had wavered; evidently he didn’t like hearing about Stanley’s flings. “Out of curiosity, is that what you’re hoping to get from us?"

“Us?” He and Fiddleford. Fiddleford and him. They were official now, weren’t they? They’d had sex and Fiddleford was referring to them as ‘us’. They were a couple.

And they’d become one without Stanley even knowing. He’d never been good at the whole ‘relationship’ thing. “So, we’re together? You’re like, my, uh… my boyfriend?”

“That isn’t the term I’d use, but yes.” Fiddleford slid a hand over to his, his fingers warm over Stanley’s knuckles. “I’ll consider you my ‘boyfriend’, if that’s something you want? If not, that's perfectly alright. I don't want you to feel pressured to commit to a relationship you're not interested in.”

“Are you kidding? ’Course I wanna have you as a boyfriend!” His mouth split open in a grin. “Who wouldn’t wanna go out with a guy like you? You’re the whole package! Smart, funny, handsome, and the things you can do with your fingers-“ He was silenced by a mouth descending to his own, kissing a smudge of coffee away from the corner of his lips. He set his drink aside and reached up to cup Fiddleford’s face in his hands and pull him in for a _real_ kiss. Fiddleford’s lips were soft and warm and melded perfectly over his own, tasting faintly of coffee and sugar.

They came close to doing the deed right then and there on that bench, hands sliding up beneath shirts and down waistbands, thighs moving in to press flush together. The cry of frolicking children was what stopped them before they could progress to the main event. Fiddleford, splayed out beneath Stanley, sighed and got to work on pulling his trousers back up around his hips.

Stanley followed suit, buckling up the belt Fiddleford had managed to undo so quickly with those deft fingers of his. “Too cold to do it out here, anyway,” he mumbled.

“Would you like’t finish up at my house?” Fiddleford had moved on to buttoning up his flannel shirt. It was blue and long-sleeved, with gold buttons, and Stanley thought the way it hugged his sides was very attractive.

“Can y’cook me something after?”

“How ‘bout some fried egg sandwiches? I’ll cook up a few dozen.”

“You’re too perfect for me, you know that,” Stanley said reverently. Food truly was the fastest way to a man heart.

He drove in to do up the last of the shirt buttons before Fiddleford could reach them. Fiddleford lay back, allowing him to finish up. He teased his fingers up Fiddleford’s sides before he withdrew, heaving himself off of the other man and into the grass.

“Hey, want me to carry you home? Bridal-style like?” He felt obligated to do something cliché now that they were a couple. Fiddleford laughed and threw his legs over the side of the bench. As he stood, he inclined himself towards Stanley, a hand reaching for the back of Stanley’s head, drawing him in. A chaste kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“We’re not quite married yet, darlin’,” he said, and Stanley felt his cheeks begin to warm. There were few people able to mess with as well as Fiddleford could. He gave him a playful shove, and then reeled him back in, hooking an arm around Fiddleford's waist to shove a hand deep into one of his back pockets. Fiddleford opted to sling an arm over Stanley’s broad shoulders.

They received queer looks as they walked home with their sides hugged together.

* * *

The case continued. Stanley endured. In two months, there was only one new victim. All evidence he and Fiddleford gathered from the crime scene came up inconclusive. They couldn’t find as little as a hair of this guy - or gal, and they’d lost all hope of retrieving a fingerprint when Fiddleford had mentioned that gloves and booties must have been used, because the only thing they could draw from any surface were skid marks. The future of the case was looking bleak.

To scrape up some extra cash for the winter, Stanley re-opened the shack at limited business hours, ten until three in the evening. With Fiddleford willing to man the register on the odd occasion, he was making enough to pay his mortgage and utilities, and then some. The ‘some’ often went towards outings with Fiddleford. They didn’t stray far from Gravity Falls, but Fiddleford wasn’t accustomed to a sentry lifestyle, being the sort to move wherever work took him, so he would suggest places that were within an hours driving distance for them to visit every weekend. Beaches and trail walks were his most common choices. Stanley was happy to follow Fiddleford to any destination he chose. It’d been so long since anyone had wanted to be in his company that he was sucking up the affection and love like a sponge.

Thought Fiddleford often looked as if he would have liked to stay out in the serenity of the wilderness forever, he was fidgety and inconsolable if they remained away from Gravity Falls after dark. Planning around Fiddleford’s anxieties wasn’t hard. They couldn’t go camping, (not a great loss for Stanley, who had done enough sleeping on cold, hard surfaces), but they still had plenty of time for the activities they would always plan a few days prior. Fiddleford was strict about his planning. He wasn’t much for spontaneity, these days. He valued organization. It made being Stanley’s partner difficult, sometimes, but they were otherwise perfectly compatible.

The population of Gravity Falls had noticeably dwindled since Stanley’s arrival there. It hadn’t been very populous to begin with, but now it was bordering on pathetic. People had started to leave in droves when the murders first began. Those who remained were either stubborn, well-armed with wealth and weapons, or couldn’t afford to flee.

Word had spread throughout America of the murders taking place in Gravity Falls, the perpetrator of which had been named ‘The Gravity Falls Headshot’ by the local newspaper. This didn’t deter tourists in the slightest. They would come to see the town hounded by a mysterious killer, and subsequently, would find themselves at the Mystery Shack. None of them remained overnight. Terrible news for their local motels, but good news for Stanley, who only needed them to stay long enough to browse his attractions and buy his merchandise. As time progressed, and the Shack grew to be a well-recognized tourist stop, featured in brochures and commercials, most of his attention was delegated to amassing a small fortune. And, of course, Fiddleford.

The lull in activity didn’t last.

They had sat down for breakfast in a small café on the outskirts of town. It was in a rustic old bungalow, untreated floorboards and exposed brick walls. Stanley hadn’t even known of the place before Fiddleford introduced him to it.

Fiddleford always ordered something elaborate, ‘thyme-flecked eggs on pumpernickel bread with a slathering of avocado and an iced mocha, please’ was today’s order. Stanley went with sausages, toast, and a black coffee. The plates that were put in front of him were always a lot more complex than what he was accustomed to, sprinkled with spices and other niceties, and they were inevitably delicious.

He was about to take a bite out of some toast that had some unfamiliar, but pleasant autumn hues to it when Ray came bursting in. He practically sucked his food into his lungs in his surprise.

“I need everyone in this building to evacuate. There’s been another murder.”

The café had only three other patrons and that turned all their heads.

“What!?” Fiddleford jolted upright, half a poached egg slopping out of his mouth and onto the front of his shirt. “How is that possible!?”

Ray paused. The other customers were on the edges of their seats, rapt and waiting on a reply.

When he finally did speak, his words were slow and carefully chosen. “I know this must come as a surprise, Mr. Mcgucket; you are, after all, a _civilian_ , but I don’t believe this isn’t the first time our perpetrator has killed during the day.”

Fiddleford wiped his mouth on the back of a hand, taking an unsteady breath. “My apologies. It’s just so early in the morning. Not even noon.” He dabbed some egg yolk off his sternum with a napkin, and then reached over the table to grab at Stanley’s sleeve, tugging him up out of his seat. He didn’t say anything more until they were outside, beyond earshot of the cafe. “Perhaps if we hurry, we’ll catch him in the surrounding area.”

Coughing and clearing his throat, Stanley thumped a fist to his chest to encourage his meal down. “You – you wanna check north, I’ll check south?” His voice was hoarse. That bread and sausage had inflicted hell on his throat.

“We’ll be able to get a lot more done with four people,” Fiddleford replied, and then directed a question at Ray, who was following them as discreetly as possible. “Where’s, ah... _Ennis_?”

“The station. He should be in the break room.”

“I’ll grab him. You two get started.” Ray ushered Stanley away from Fiddleford once they had reached the scene of the murder, guiding him by the shoulder. Stanley tensed; he didn't like being alone with either officer. Ray was a taciturn no-funny-business sort of guy, much like his father had been, and Ennis wasn’t much better in that regard, but at least _he_ didn’t go around referring to everyone as ‘Mr. Surname’. The kid had a little more life in him.

Thankfully they parted ways at a public bathroom, Ray stepping inside to check the woman’s quarters. It was only his uniform that would enable him to get out of there without a high heel stuck up his bulbous ass. Stanley chose to skim his way through the arcade; hide in plain sight. That’s what they said, right? And the arcade was the perfect place to meld in. It wasn’t long before he’d been thrown out for harassing the patrons, though.

He spent a considerable length of time meandering through town in search of anyone or anything that looked out of place. In the end, he headed back to the station with not a single thing to report.

Neither Ray nor Ennis were anywhere in sight, but Fiddleford was standing out front, fidgeting in that same way he had during their first and last overnight trip outside the borders of Gravity Falls. When he saw Stanley, he closed the distance between them fast enough to startle Stanley into retreating a couple of stumbling steps. That didn’t stop Fiddleford from leaping forward and setting his hands on Stanley’s shoulders. His face bore a look of preternatural gravity.

“Stanley, could you stay at my place tonight?” his voice was uncharacteristically authoritative. Less a question, more a demand.

In a different context, Stanley might have found that hot. “What, the killer got you spooked?” His playful remark didn’t receive a response, so he cleared his throat and continued. “You stayed at my place when I was ‘bout to shit myself, so yeah, I can stay at yours.”

“Thank you.” Fiddleford’s features slackened with relief.

Taking this as an opening to lighten the mood, Stanley added, “We can even build a pillow fort. Throw it up in the kitchen or something.”

“And ruin my good pillows?” Fiddleford laughed, but it sounded weary. “No, I think we’ll have to make do with the bedroom.”

“The bedroom, huh?” Stanley extended his arms so Fiddleford’s hands would be forced to slide down to his waist. That was better. “I’ve got a few ideas for how we can pass the time.”

It was a good thing Fiddleford was as comfortable with public displays of affection as he was, because several people strolled past and looked their way. Some disgusted, some dismissive. Only one smiled.

“Do you, now,” Fiddleford’s voice was almost a purr. He could be quite the Casanova when he wanted to be.

Stanley briefly wondered how he’d wooed his wife, but found the thought off-putting and summarily dismissed it. “You’re soundin’ a little better.” He butted their heads together, grinning. “You were real serious for a moment there.”

“There _was_ a murder. It’s a serious occasion. I’ve been relatively calm until now, I know, but I can’t keep that up all the time.” Fiddleford pulled Stanley’s waist in a little closer. It was thick and plentiful, providing love handles.

Stanley fluttered his hands. “Hey, if you ever feel like screamin’ to let off some steam, I don’t care. Go for it. Scream away.”

“I- I know.” Fiddleford’s mouth trembled, an attempt at a smile. “I suppose I’m just used to being a crutch, what with a wife and child and all.” After a pause, he corrected himself, “My ex-wife.”

“Lucky for me,” Stanley said rather thoughtlessly.

Fiddleford showed no sign of being insulted by this. He removed his hands from Stanley’s waist, smoothing down his bright red jacket. “I don’t think we’ll see Ray and Ennis for a while. Ready to head back?”

“Shouldn’t we collect evidence?”

“Let’s not worry about that right now.”

It was nearing the early hours of the evening and Stanley had neither finished his breakfast nor eaten lunch. He eagerly scooped one of Fiddleford’s hands into his own and dragged him in the direction of the only fast food joint in town. “Food first, then home.”

When they dropped into bed together, naked except for their undergarments, Stanley was still licking grease and salt off his fingers. His breath smelt strongly of pickles and special sauce as he leaned in for a kiss. Fiddleford brushed him off and demanded he brush his teeth and wash his hands first. Petulant, but ravenous for intimacy, Stanley did, and he returned ten minutes later smelling like Fiddleford’s own aftershave.

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re supposed to use that after you shave, Stanley. That’s why it’s called ‘aftershave’.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said you wanted me to make myself up all nice!” Stanley clambered his way onto the bed and into Fiddleford’s lap, lying with his head on Fiddleford’s stomach. There wasn’t much there to cushion it. Fiddleford had a very narrow body, the complete opposite of his own.

“That isn’t even close to what I said,” Fiddleford retorted, scoffing, but leaned down regardless, nuzzling his prominent nose into Stanley’s unruly waves of brown hair.

Their day ended with the bedroom door shut and locked, chair shoved under the handle for good measure. It was a two story house, so Stanley didn’t expect anyone would scale it to reach the bedroom window. The lack of windowsill provided an additional deterrent. Before they went to bed, it was shut, locked, and the curtains were drawn, but it was more for peace of mind than actual security.

After wearing themselves out with gratuitous sex in every position possible, in every orifice possible (well, within reason), they curled up under the covers and went to sleep.

* * *

Their lull had well and truly come to an end. One night at Fiddleford’s house had extended into a week, and on his sixth morning he’d been dragged out of bed wearing only sweatpants and a singlet and made to drive Ennis, Ray, and Fiddleford to a nearby hospital, where a victim of the Gravity Falls Headshot been taken. Upon being led to their room, they discovered it was a young frumpy-looking woman with black hair and big blue eyes that would have looked pretty were they not staring up at the ceiling, glassy and unresponsive. Their skull had been caved right in, in a way that had clearly conveyed intent to cause brain damage, but they were still alive in the biological sense of the word. The doctors said there was no chance they would have the same intellectual capacity when or if they awoke.

For the moment, they were completely comatose. Though the doctors had assured them that many coma patients did eventually awaken, there was no telling when that would be. A day from now, a week from now. While waiting on additional information, they decided to have a late breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. Stanley looked strangely in-place among the grieving families, while the rest of the group appeared too formally dressed.

He grabbed himself some bacon and eggs (and a plastic carton of fruit salad at Fiddleford’s insistence) and sat down to eat.

Ennis raised his head to look across the table at him, smiling. Stanley bristled. “ _What_?”

This caught Fiddleford’s attention. He looked between them, and then said, “Don't worry, Stanley; he's just happy for us.”

“Happy for us?”

Fiddleford nodded. “He’s noticed we’re a couple,” he said, but his downcast eyes belied his calm reply.

“Yes, it’s very sweet,” said Ennis, curling his pale fingers around his fork. He stabbed at his chicken salad, popping a piece into his mouth. “Fiddleford is very fond of you. He’s told me as much.”

“I kinda guessed that from the way he have sex all the time,” Stanley replied.

Fiddleford gasped and lightly slapped the back of Stanley’s head. “Stanley!” Stanley only laughed.

“I didn’t know you gave a shit.” He directed his comment at Ennis, who was still smiling. Fiddleford was openly disgruntled.

“You’re practically my co-workers. Of course I ‘give a shit’.”

“Thanks, I guess. That's, uh... nice you you.” Stanley wasn’t sure when else he could say. He resumed eating his bacon and eggs, periodically spooning some fruit salad into his mouth to appease Fiddleford.

Ennis spoke again after a brief period of silence. “It’s very brave of you two to be so open about your relationship. It’s gotten a little better, I suppose, to be queer-“ A twitch from Fiddleford, who was clearly familiar with the slur in a way Stanley wasn’t. “But they still have some sodomy laws in some states, like they think that encapsulates your relationship. Terrible, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh,” Stanley agreed, though Ennis didn’t sound to be offering them sympathy. It was more like he was insulting them in the most passive aggressive way he could think of.

Fiddleford was staring stonily down at his food. “They suggest it’s a psychiatric illness as well, but there’s no point in letting their bigotry dictate how we live our life. We’ll just end up miserable and scared.”

“You mean you aren’t already?”

“No. We’re happy.”

“I really don’t see how you could be. Most people consider your relationship disgusting and unnatural.”

Fiddleford’s jaw tightened. “I know _you_ don’t approve, Ennis. You really shouldn’t be speaking on this subject.”

The apologetic expression that sprung up onto Ennis’ face was clearly feigned. “That doesn’t mean I can’t have exceptions to my preferences. I mean, I would rather you were with a women, but-“

“Who the fuck do you think you are, anyway?” Stanley interrupted in a snarl. He slammed a fist into the table, jostling their meals. “You’re a work colleague or some shit, not a friend. You don’t get to say shit like that, like you even know him.”

Fiddleford set a hand on his upper arm, hushing him. “Stanley, please. We shouldn’t be having this conversation here.”

Glaring at Ennis, Stanley reluctantly withdrew. “Whatever. You aren’t worth my time, anyway.”

Ennis’ lips thinned. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He pushed his chicken salad away and stood up out of his chair. Ray followed suit, though he had been silent up until now.

“I’m not very hungry, either. I need a smoke.” Ray didn’t even look at them before departing. Stanley was given the feeling he agreed with Ennis’ homophobic remarks. What an awful morning. First their perp had thrown them a curve ball just as Stanley had started to become desensitized to the corpses; allowed them a live victim, but one that, in all likelihood, wouldn’t be able to communicate comprehensively enough to tell them who was responsible, and that was if their memory hadn’t been affected. With a depression the size of a baseball in her skull, that seemed unlikely.

And then the people he and Fiddleford had entrusted their well-being to had unveiled themselves as bigots. Bigots with _guns_. Stanley was a little short sighted when it came to problems that didn't directly affect him, but even he knew gay people being murdered wasn't an uncommon occurrence.

Unlike the others, including Fiddleford, who was now staring down at his food with a look of disinterest, Stanley still wanted to eat. Eating usually made him feel better about situations such as these. He shoveled a forkful of egg and sausage into his mouth and chewed. “You okay, Fids?” he asked around his next mouthful of breakfast. “It’s just Ennis. No one likes Ennis. Just ignore him.”

“I’m okay,” Fiddleford croaked, sounding anything but okay. “I’m okay,” he repeated, sounding even less okay than he had the first time. Stanley arched his eyebrows in concern.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

Fiddleford raised his head a touch, shaking it. “We can’t. We’re obligated to stay a few hours.”

“Why couldn’t Ray and Ennis deal with that?”

“I don’t want them to. I don’t want to leave them alone with Miss Ashby.”

“But they’re police officers. They ain’t gonna do anything to hurt her.”

“They could encourage the family to pull the plug.”

“So what?” Stanley asked. His lips were smudged with sausage grease. “She’s as good as dead anyway.”

“What if she has something to tell us?”

“Half her brain was reduced to mush. If she has anything to tell us, it’s probably going to be said in grunts and moans.”

Fiddleford moved his salad around in its container with his knife. The edges of his lettuce were starting to brown. “Do you think it’d be better if she were dead?” he asked.

Stanley didn’t know what the correct answer was. He wasn’t any good at philosophical questions, as he had found out during his first year of Social Studies. His teacher had told him his perspective on things was too submerged in grey (“To save the guys in the trolley AND the guy on the track, blow up the tram!” “Stanley…”), which had been a peculiar issue for a high schooler to have. “You should probably ask the family,” was his decided upon answer. A blatant evasion, but what else could he say?

Fiddleford gave up on his meal entirely, picking it up and tossing it into the nearest rubbish bin. “There’s a television in her room. Lets watch programs until we can leave.”

“Sounds good to me,” Stanley said, and worked on shoveling down the rest of his breakfast.

Miss Ashby didn’t wake up. It was past noon when they arrived back in Gravity Falls, and he and Fiddleford went to their respective houses. The next they heard about Miss Ashby, she had been announced brain dead and euthanized so her organs could be harvested for those who did have a chance at living. Stanley wasn’t sure how he felt about that.


	7. Nightmares

“I’m tired of this,” Stanley announced.

Fiddleford peered over the top of the book he was reading, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m tired of this,” Stanley repeated. His voice was being muffled by a bellowing late night football commentary. He reached over his bedside table and to the volume knob on the radio, lowering it. “I’m tired,” he said once more.

Fiddleford closed his book and set it down in his lap. His long legs were extended out before him, covered by a heavy duvet, while Stanley sat cross-legged on top. He was an excitable person and easily immersed in football, so he liked to have his limbs free while the radio was on.

“What are you tired of, exactly?” Fiddleford asked.

“The case,” Stanley clarified. He rolled over, throwing himself face-first into the mattress. “Gravity Falls, too. I’m tired of this town and all the weird, horrible things that happen here.”

“Well, I can’t say I don’t empathize. I don’t especially like it here, either.”

“Then why don’t we go away?”

“You know why.” Fiddleford sighed, leaning over Stanley and carding his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I dislike it here, but I don’t feel like I can leave.”

“Come on,” Stanley whined. “What if we go for just a week?”

“Stanley…”

“We could even go somewhere nearby. Like a forest, or a beach. Just-“ Stanley moved to lay his head on Fiddleford’s thigh, his bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “Can we go _somewhere_? Please? I’ll even pay for a quarter of it!”

Fiddleford wrapped his arms around Stanley’s shoulders – he had nice, lean arms. Stanley instinctively wiggled up into them. “You’re so needy,” Fiddleford said with a chastising slap to his ass. A tent immediately started to form in Stanley’s boxers. Fiddleford knew Stanley found him in an authoritative role arousing. “My answer is no, for the moment. But I might be able to be convinced.”

“How?” Stanley asked eagerly.

Cool fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxers, squeezing around the plentiful flesh beneath. Stanley’s wanton moan was caught by Fiddleford’s mouth as he dropped to press a kiss to his open lips. Breathing shallowly, Fiddleford spoke against them. “How badly do you want this?”

“I interrupted _football_ for it,” Stanley pointed out, shifting his face to Fiddleford’s neck, biting and licking at all available skin. Fiddleford took a shuddering breath and wrapped one of his arms around Stanley’s torso to secure him in place.

“Good point,” Fiddleford said, completely at ease despite Stanley shamelessly rutting his cock up the side of his leg like a horny dog. “But even if I agree,” he continued, and gently pried Stanley’s teeth out of his neck. A large pink ring blemished the pale skin. “We still have to convince Ray and Ennis to let us go.”

Stanley’s hard-on flagged. He ceased rutting. “Fuck ‘em. Even if they say no, we should go anyway.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with doing that.”

“I am.”

Fiddleford squeezed at Stanley ass again, a blatant attempt to distract him. It didn’t work. “Come on, Fids. Let me convince you, _then_ we can worry about how we’re gonna tell Ray and Ennis we’re abandoning them for a week.”

“’Abandoning,” Fiddleford intoned. “Phrasing it like that isn’t help you case.”

“Is this helping my case?” Stanley asked as he slid Fiddleford’s shirt out of the way and licked a line over his shoulder.

The way Fiddleford shivered gave Stanley the impression that, yes, it did help. He shifted deeper into Fiddleford’s lap, and he could feel Fiddleford’s cock swelling beneath those pinstriped pyjamas of his.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Fiddleford murmured in a breathy stream. “If you’re trying to get me aroused enough to make bad decisions, you’re succeeding.”

“Good.” He twisted to kiss Fiddleford’s ear lobe, just visible beneath shaggy sideburns. “So, you gonna tell me how I can convince you?”

“No.” Fiddleford said, and then grabbed Stanley by the front of his singlet, throwing him over his lap. “I’m going to _show_ you.”

And show Stanley he did, leaving him so sore and exhausted that he wasn’t able to sit comfortably for hours after. In the end, Stanley got what he wanted, like he usually did. Fiddleford with his kind giving nature was predisposed to yielding to Stanley’s requests.

They told Ray and Ennis of their plans early the next morning, Stanley doing most of the speaking while Fiddleford shuffled nervously from foot to foot. Ennis never stopped glaring at them. They received little dispute, however, and walked away with both Ray and Ennis agreeing to give them a short ‘mental health’ holiday.

Fiddleford was distressed for the remainder of the day. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a fit like this, so Stanley kept his distance and allowed him to ride it out. Fiddleford came by the shack a few times, babbling to himself, but merely glanced at Stanley and refused to approach.

By the next day, Fiddleford had recovered and they were ready to start making arrangements. The place they decided upon was a cheap rental beach house, only thirty minutes away. If need be, they would be able to rush back to Gravity Falls, but Stanley wasn’t anticipating anything that would require their return. Ennis and Ray had assured them they would address any murders that took place in their absence.

The night before they were due to leave, Stanley fell asleep feeling giddy and excited.

Fiddleford was rigid in his arms.

* * *

The beach house wasn’t much to look at. More of a shack than the actual Mystery Shack was, containing three sparsely furnished rooms; the bathroom, the bedroom, and a lounge room with an adjoining kitchen. They had a shoddily constructed wood heater sticking out of a lounge room wall for when it got cold, and two windows for when it got hot. Both windows were in the main room, beside the door. The only carpeting they had was provided by several garish rugs scattered throughout the house. Stanley would come to appreciate them when he got up in the morning and had to skitter his way across floorboards that chilled the soles of his feet, feeling much like ice.

They entered with their luggage dragging alongside them. The bags were much heavier than they would have been had Stanley done the packing. He’d made an attempt, but Fiddleford had taken over when he’d seen Stanley stuff a handful of underwear and mismatched socks into his suitcase. Fiddleford had been on numerous trips over the years, usually accompanied by his family, and he knew exactly what to bring to avoid having one of those ‘oops, I forgot‘ moments. The only items Stanley had thought to bring were a video recorder and a Polaroid.

After stuffing their bags into a corner, to be unpacked once they’d settled in, Stanley walked into the bedroom to lie down. There were two beds. They were standard singles, and didn’t look terribly comfortable.

“Fids,” he called, frowning at their arrangements. “Did you mention we were two dudes?”

“What does that have to do with- oh.” Fiddleford stood at the door frame, a frown knitting his own brow. “Probably should’ve omitted that part.”

“It’s fine. We can push ‘em together.” Stanley sat down on one of the beds, making himself comfortable. The edges of his mouth curved when he noticed Fiddleford cross the room, reaching to him and rolling them onto the slightly musty coverlet.

“This is a nice little place,” Fiddleford murmured against his clavicle. “Thank you for convincing me to go, Stanley.”

“Y’should thank me. I always know what’s best,” Stanley declared with a grin.

Fiddleford laughed. “Well then, what do you think about going out and having a look at the water?”

“It’s warm enough. Lemme put on my trunks.”

They brought towels, a cooler, and the Polaroid out onto the beach front. The view made their less than spectacular lodgings a worthwhile nuisance. Pine trees fringed the beach on all sides, reflecting on otherwise clear waters, and a thick rim of white sand extended around the sea in a crescent. The sand, along with the water and pines, disappeared into a warm horizon.

Stanley kicked off his boots and stood in the sand. The water rolled and crashed onto the embankment and the seagulls cried overhead, their shrill voices carried by the wind. He watched and listened, feeling his heart become heavy with nostalgia. How long had it been since he’d visited Glass Shard beach? Eleven years? Twelve? More?

They laid out a blanket and sat for a while, enjoying the heat, until Fiddleford set a hand on Stanley’s thigh. Stanley covered it, squeezing those thin fingers in his own. The nostalgia faded away with the knowledge he was creating new memories, now, with someone he loved, who loved him back. Glass Shard beach was his past. This was his future, and it was looking so much brighter than he had ever thought it would.

He released Fiddleford’s hand and rolled onto his side, wrestling the Polaroid out of its beige case. Throwing the sling over his head, he turned the lens on a startled Fiddleford and took a picture. The camera clicked and whirred before producing the photo, and Stanley gave it a moment to develop before he pulled it out, showing it to Fiddleford.

“You look really good, even when you’re pulling a face,” Stanley commented, chuckling as Fiddleford examined the photo with a frown.

“I look silly.” He tried to snatch the photo away, but Stanley held it out of his reach, chuckles rising into laughter.

“You look great! I’m gonna frame this one.”

“You’d better not,” Fiddleford warned, leaping onto him and toppling them both into the sand. He ended up with sand in his hair, in his trunks, and all over his back, but continued holding the photo away from Fiddleford with one hand, using the other to hinder Fiddleford’s attempts to climb over him. It would have been easy to push him off, but what fun would that be?

Fiddleford ended up coming out victorious by grasping Stanley’s cock through his trunks. The picture slipped from his fingers in time with a squeal from his throat. Devious little bastard. It took Stanley a moment to collect his bearings, by which time Fiddleford had set off across the beach with the photo in hand. Discarding the Polaroid, he threw himself to his feet and followed, taking leaping steps after the other man. It wasn’t fair, really. Fiddleford had much longer legs than him.

But it turned out he didn’t have the stamina Stanley did, so that evened things out. His running first slowed to a jog, and then a dragging walk, and then Fiddleford hunched over with his hands on his knees and took harsh, wheezing breaths. Stanley found this pitiful enough not to go crashing into his side. He instead approached Fiddleford at a jog and scooped him up into his arms – finding him heavier than he had expected; less a string of grapes, more a dumbbell. His grip even began to waver as he kicked his way into the sea. Fiddleford circled his arms around Stanley’s neck, apparently too exhausted to complain.

Though he did manage a ‘hey!’ when Stanley unceremoniously dropped him into the water. The sea splashed up around Fiddleford, catching Stanley in the chest and face. Stanley spluttered and stuttered backwards, only to have a foot hook around his ankle and yank, sending him falling into the water with his arms cartwheeling. The foot, of course, belonged to Fiddleford, who was smiling toothily when he flailed his way to the surface.

“Nice day for a swim,” Fiddleford said as Stanley struggled his way to his feet, shaking water out of his hair. He pushed his way towards Fiddleford, the water skirting the width of his waist and belly as he moved.

“Nice day for an underwater blowjob.”

“Not happening, Stanley,” Fiddleford said as he moved to wipe Stanley’s wet bangs out of his eyes. Fiddleford’s own hair had slopped down over one side of his face, adhering to the skin. It was almost brown when wet. Deciding to return the favour, Stanley smoothed Fiddleford’s hair back and over his scalp, giving him the look of a greaser.

“I gotta take a picture of this, too.” He hooked his hands behind Fiddleford neck and scraped his thumbs up the sensitive nape of it, eliciting a shiver. “You look good.”

“You say I look good no matter how I look,” Fiddleford remarked. He opened his hands, looking down into his open palms. “I think your picture’s been donated to the sea.”

“I’ll just have to take more then, won’t I?”

“With what camera?”

Stanley gazed across the sea to the little blanket they had set up just out of reach of the waves. The camera was sitting on top of it. “Shit, guess it’s gonna have to wait ‘till later.” He tugged Fiddleford in close, stomach to stomach. “I wanna underwater blowjob.”

“Still not happening.”

Stanley pursed his lips. “Fine. I’ll settle for a normal blowjob.”

‘Later’ turned out to be just before bed, after they had pushed the singles together and located a quilt to spread over the mattress’ so they wouldn’t go sliding down between them in the night. It was warm enough to sleep naked, which they full intended to take advantage of. Just before settling down to sleep, Stanley had whipped out the camera. Upon seeing it, Fiddleford shied away.

“C’mon Stanley, I’m really not as photogenic as you think.”

“Aw, just three photos?” Stanley insisted, switching the camera on. “Two?”

“Mnm.” A noncommittal sound was all the reply he got.

Stanley’s grip sagged, the viewfinder dropping away from Fiddleford’s face. “What if I let you pick what photos we keep?”

“…Alright,” Fiddleford said at last, turning to smile at him. He had slightly crooked teeth which Stanley thought attractive, but Fiddleford was clearly self-conscious of. “But you have to let _me_ take photos of _you_ tomorrow.”

“Hey, I woulda let you do that either way.”

He snapped several photos before falling into slumber, only two of which Fiddleford allowed him to keep. One of Fiddleford dozing off, which Stanley had nigh begged him not to throw away, and another of Fiddleford curled up under the covers with a book, his glasses threatening to slide off the end of his nose.

* * *

They fucked slow and raw when morning arrived, an alternative to starting the fire. The box spring mattress’ squealed with every thrust and a gap formed between the beds, but neither of them took any notice. As orgasm shuddered through Stanley, his temples throbbed and he saw flashes of colours behind his eyelids, shades of red and green and yellow, reminiscence of fireworks. They faded as quickly as they had come.

“Jesus Christ,” Stanley wheezed. Panting and sweaty, he collapsed on top of Fiddleford and had just enough strength left to nuzzle up beneath his chin.

“You should try crying my name for once,” Fiddleford murmured into Stanley’s hair. “I think I deserve it after all that effort I just exerted.”

“You came too, you whiny ass,” Stanley said sleepily. He traced some light freckles scattered across Fiddleford’s shoulder with his fingertips. “Hey, I can draw a dick on your shoulder with your freckles.”

“This is the sort of after sex talk I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, huh?” Fiddleford asked wryly.

Stanley froze. “The rest of your life?”

“Is that not what you had in mind…?”

Slowly, Stanley replied, “Is this the part where I tell you I love you, and wanna stay with you forever? Or some other cliché romantic shit?”

“Only if you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Stanley said at once, completely sincere.

“The sentiment is mutual.” Smiling wide, Fiddleford pressed his cheek to Stanley’s scalp, eyes falling shut. There was a pause before he spoke again, “Could you cook dinner tonight, Stanley? I have some blueprints I’d like to touch up this evening.”

Confused, Stanley’s reply was hesitating. “Uh, sure. I’ll make Puerco Pibil.”

“You always make that when I ask you to cook.”

“That’s because I have good taste.” Stanley nipped at Fiddleford’s collarbones, confusion forgotten. “I’ll go out ‘n buy the ingredients. You work on whatever weird nerd thing you’re working on.”

* * *

Stanley had liked to collect shells as a child, and it turned out that interest followed him into adulthood. As they strode along the coastline, hand in hand, Stanley would periodically bend to pick up shells of varying shapes and sizes; small ones, big ones, some that were pink and shiny, others that were rough and dull. He wiped them with a sleeve if they were wet, sliding them into the empty camera case. He didn’t have the camera today. Fiddleford did, and Fiddleford would turn to take photos of him picking up the shells whenever he thought Stanley looked especially endearing.

He took several scenic pictures of the sea and forest, and photos of both of them. Mostly, though, he took pictures of Stanley. Stanley wading through the water, Stanley with sand in his hair, Stanley peering into the forest. Finally, after an hour of this, the camera ran out of film and Fiddleford was left with an empty camera dangling around his neck and pockets brimming with photographs.

They took their bounty home just before dark. Sitting in the living room with the television switched on, Stanley lay the shells out on a the coffee table, preparing to clean them while Fiddleford sorted through what photos they were to keep. Not being a fan of having dirty things in his living quarters, Fiddleford had brought out his cleaning equipment for Stan. The gloves didn’t fit – were too small – but he made do, scrubbing the filth off each shell with a cloth and a dabbing of antiseptic.

When he was finished, Fiddleford rushed him into the bathroom to clean his hands before he could touch anything. “That really shouldn’t be on your skin,” he said, shoving Stanley’s hands beneath a warm stream of water. “Honestly, Stanley, what would you do without me?”

“Forget to wash my hands before I eat, probably,” he mumbled in reply.

For dinner, Fiddleford cooked two fillets of salmon and whipped up a side of fried rice. Stanley ate ravenously in front of the television, enjoying every bite. He would never tire of home cooked meals. Subsisting on fast food and sandwiches for ten years had given him a taste for eating in rather than out.

They ended the night on the veranda, watching the stars from two rickety lawn chairs. “My ma used to tell me when people died, they became stars,” Stanley said. “Didn’t really align with what we learned during torah study, but my ‘rents were pretty lax about that, anyway.”

“You’re jewish?” This sounded to be news to Fiddleford.

“Sorta. Half-and-half. Only my dad’s side is Jewish, but I had a coming of age ceremony and everything.”

“I would have liked to see that. I bet you were adorable.” Fiddleford slid over to Stanley’s chair, sitting in his lap. Stanley quickly wrapped his arms around Fiddleford’s waist to make sure he wouldn’t fall off.

“Yeah, I was. Still had a ton of baby fat, so I looked fuckin’ cute as hell.” He nuzzled into the back of Fiddleford’s neck, nipping at a prominent knob of his spine. “Worst part was having to prepare a speech.”

“What did you end up going with?”

“Something outta the Torah. It was a long time ago. I don’t remember exactly what, but it was pretty well received.” He shrugged. “Stanford did better.”

“I’m sure you did just as well,” Fiddleford said, twisting to kiss the edge of Stanley’s mouth. “When December comes around, I suppose we’ll be celebrating Hanukkah and Christmas, then?”

“Wouldn’t make much difference to me, either way. I haven’t celebrated Hanukkah or Christmas in years.” There wasn’t much point in celebrating when living on your own, on the street. He never received so much as a card from those who had claimed to love him.

“Then I’ll have to make this one of your best,” Fiddleford said with resolve.

Then they were silent, sitting back and watching the stars until it was time to go to bed.

That night, Stanley tossed and turned on his side of the bed, an anxious sweat rising to the surface of his skin, leaving his hands cold and clammy. He awoke with dread clawing up his throat and his heart hammering like a hummingbirds, adrenaline pumping through his veins from an unseen threat. He didn’t understand why he felt so awful. Everything was perfect.

Maybe he was waking from nightmares he couldn’t remember, he thought, closing his eyes. He only managed to get a few hours of sleep and was sluggish throughout the next day.

* * *

An hour’s drive from their lodgings brought them to a towering Museum of Flight. Fiddleford took out two tickets for a 90 minute tour, which Stanley balked at.

“When did you get those?” he asked.

“Back at Gravity Falls, while we were preparing,” Fiddleford answered, tucking them away in his jeans pocket. The tour wasn’t due to begin until after lunch and it was a sunny day, so Fiddleford sat Stanley down in the shade and applied a thick layer of sunscreen to his skin. They bought an ice-coffee each and shared a family-sized plate of fries and chicken, most of which Stanley ate. Several families wandered on by with bickering children, congregating at the entrance to the museum, and Fiddleford took that as their cue to join the end of the line.

“I hope I don’t fall asleep during this,” Stanley said, yawning. When he saw Fiddleford frown, he quickly amended his remark with, “’Cus I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Been tossing and turning all night.”

“I know. You keep on waking me up.” Fiddleford slung an arm around his sunscreen-slicked shoulders. “It can be difficult sleeping in a foreign place.”

“Kinda looking forward to getting back to the shack,” Stanley admitted.

“Well, it’s our last night tonight. If you don’t get any sleep, I’ll do the drive.”

“You drove here, though.”

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

The crowd of tourists nudged forward and he and Fiddleford were forced to follow. It wasn’t long before a cool blast of air from overhead conditioners were greeting them into the building. They stepped up to the reception desk, and Fiddleford extended the tickets.

“I didn’t even know you liked this stuff,” Stanley said as they entered the first room. He strode straight up to the first plane, standing as close as he could to it without calling attention to himself. Their tour guide stood next to the plaque and rattled off a brief history.

“It’s interesting enough.” Fiddleford strode up beside him and put a hand around his waist, perhaps to make sure he wouldn’t go flinging himself into the display. “This is more for you than it is for me, honestly. I know you like this sort of thing.”

“Seriously?” No one had done anything like this for him since, well... _ever_.

Fiddleford smiled. “You’re my boyfriend. It’s basically my job to make you happy.”

Stanley sniffed and rapidly blinked his eyes. “You’re gonna make me cry. In _public_. Stop being so thoughtful.”

“You crying in public makes me _want_ to be more thoughtful.” Fiddleford slid a finger into one of Stanley’s belt loops, tugging their hips together. “I love you.”

“Fuck off,” Stanley warbled, turning red. And then added in a low mumble, “Love you too.”

* * *

The drive home was uneventful. Stanley lay across the back seats, drooling on his forearms and dozing while Fiddleford drove at a comfortable speed of 60kh the entire way home. They arrived back in Gravity Falls a little before noon and stopped at Fiddleford’s favourite café for a late breakfast.

It was a miracle Stanley managed to avoid falling asleep in his plate of food. He nibbled on his meal and stared, entranced, at the tie-dye tablecloth, dazed and unresponsive. Fiddleford took pity on him after he nearly shoved a forkful of scrambled egg up his nose and led him out of his seat, back into the car.

“I’ll be seeing Tate this afternoon and then I have a project I want to work on, so I’ll take you back to the shack, alright?”

Stanley nodded, agreeing without being aware of what he was agreeing too. Listening required concentration, and concentration required energy, and he didn’t have any energy to spare.

Fiddleford helped him undress and tucked him into bed, planting a kiss on his forehead. Stanley sloppily tried to return it, catching Fiddleford’s chin instead of his mouth. He didn’t care. He was too tired to care. He mumbled some words of gratitude, ‘thanks, thanks, great, m’tired’, and then turned over and promptly fell asleep.

His sleep was fitful, but that came as no surprise.


	8. Culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can’t really be happening, he thought. Right?

He awoke with his hair glued to his forehead and the nape of his neck by sweat, sticky and unpleasant. His heart hammered behind his ribs; he could hear the flow of blood buzzing in his ears, flooding him with the same sort of trepidation he associated with Colombian nights. When he parted his lips to groan, his lips were dry and cracked, and his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. The way his extremities pulsated with heat and an almost-electricity zigzagged through his belly reminded him of a fever, sans the nausea. He wondered, briefly, if he’d caught something while on holiday, but dismissed that as he sat up; he didn’t feel ill. Only dehydrated and anxious.

Swallowing, he dragged himself out of bed and ambled into his bathroom, twisting on the taps to throw cupfuls of water into his pallid features. Some water reached his tongue, and he swished it around his mouth, swallowing it. With hands drenched wet, he slicked up his neck, wiping away the sweat that had accumulated there. The feeling of anxiety didn’t go away. It lingered on his skin in the form of Goosebumps and in his chest with every thud of his heart.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered to the mirror, dropping his forehead to the glass; it was marvelously cool against his hot skin. He was reluctant to part with it, reaching his hand into the cabinet for a couple of aspirin. He chased them down with mouthfuls of sink water and felt moderately less awful after getting some fluid into his belly.

Pulling on a t-shirt, jacket, and a fresh pair of jeans, Stanley totted into his lounge room and nudged his back door open while doing up his zipper. The air outside smelt warm and damp with an impending thunderstorm. Only a small scattering of stars could be seen past the clusters of dark clouds. Stanley smiled; he was looking forward to the summer rain.

He discovered Fiddeford had left his boots on the porch, beside his lawn chair. They were warm when he tugged them on, comfortably so. He tied the laces and then hopped down the porch steps, starting the trek into town. Fiddleford’s house was a good thirty minutes away. He didn’t mind. Late night walks relaxed him more than the depths of the Mystery Shack ever could.

For a change of pace, he walked along the outer rim of the forest. Shadows played over him, intermingling peacefully with faded splotches of moonlight that managed to get through the crisscrossed branches of the jagged trees overhead. They were welcome shadows, unlike the dark corners of rooms sullied by death. The pines smelt pungent and fertile, fresher than the forest directly adjacent to the town. Less inhabited. He breathed in deep as he walked, enjoying the scent.

The time passed far more quickly than he would have liked and he felt a sudden, inexplicable urgency to run as he approached the Gravity Falls river. He didn’t heed it, breaking away from the forests edge to enter the vicinity of the Mcgucket residence. The bottom-most windows were dark, but the window he knew to belong to the bedroom was faintly lit, suggesting Fiddleford was still awake, perhaps reading a book. Stanley didn’t intend to disturb him.

Potted plants surrounded the footpath leading up to the house on either side. He knelt down beside a fern, lifting it to slide his fingers beneath the rough clay in search of the key he knew Fiddleford hid there. His fingers scraped metal and he yanked it out, rising with a tiny gold key in hand. He crept up to the door on silent feet, sliding the key into the lock and turning until he heard the faintest of _click_ s. He waited several tense minutes, listening, before he slowly turned the handle and pressed the door open just wide enough for him to slide inside. Rather than risk having the wind throw it shut, Stanley twisted the handle again and pressed the door back into its frame. Releasing it, the lock clicked back into place with barely a sound.

The house was silent and dark. As he slid forward, squinting through the black, he could see tell-tale signs of Tate’s visit; a tiny sock on the floor, a popsicle stick in the key bowl, a smear of sticky green on the kitchen doorframe. Stanley suppressed a swell of affection for the boy and pressed on. His feet took him as quiet as a mouse across the lounge room, to a door that opened into the garage. This one didn’t have a lock. Stanley knew from prior experience, however, that it squeaked if you opened it too slow. There would inevitably be a little bit of sound, but not enough to rouse Fiddleford’s suspicion, he hoped. With this new hurdle returned his earlier anxiety, and the fine hairs on his arms and legs rose to the occasion. Stanley berated himself, swearing under his breath. There was no need to be scared of Fiddleford. He’d slept beside the man, had the man spoon him and wake him with chaste kisses to the back of his head. They were in love. He was only here to put his concerns to rest, and if Fiddleford happened to discover him in the process, the only consequence would be a light grilling for his invasion of privacy. No need to be scared. No need for his heart to race and his skin to blotch red with anxiety.

And yet it did. Both his mind and body seemed to be collaborating in making this task as difficult as possible. He ground his molars, grabbed the handle, and swiftly threw the door open – _schhhhrrrr_ – the sound was barely audible, but Stanley still froze on the spot, his heartbeat thumping so loud in his ears he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear Fiddleford’s approaching footsteps.

Several minutes passed, and those footsteps didn’t arrive.

Stanley took his first tentative steps into the garage. When he heard no indication he had been discovered, he proceeded to Fiddleford’s car, circling around to the trunk. Being manual in all aspects of design, Fiddleford scarcely ever bothered to lock the trunk. After the first four doors, all requiring an individual twist of the key to lock, Fiddleford often forgot or simply couldn’t be bothered. He’d even left it ajar this time. Stanley wiggled his fingers into the gap and pried his way inside, reaching for the cleaning equipment tucked away in a corner. Digging past disinfectants and dirty clothes, he located a box of gloves and pulled them out. The familiarity of them struck him, and he tried not to think too hard on what it was they reminded him of. He could always be coming to a false association. Minds did that, sometimes. They were easy to deceive.

Back into the lounge room, to the front door, he heard a faint stirring above his head. Footsteps crossing the floor, heading for the stairs. Stanley froze. His body refused to cooperate when he told it to go through the door, _go through the fucking door._ _It’s just Fiddleford_. His muscles refused to slacken enough to enable movement, as if pervaded by a sudden onset of rigor mortis. He was a deer in headlights, mere inches from liberty, and the headlights were steadily approaching.

Floorboards creaked. He heard Fiddleford’s voice call out, “hello? Is that you, Stanley?” and it was so immensely warm and welcoming that it worked to Stanley’s advantage; his muscles unwound and he was finally able to move, opening the door and stepping out, hurrying into the night. He left the door wide open, the little gold key still in its lock.

Indistinct colours danced in front of his eyes as he jogged back along the forest, their edges alternating between sharp and fuzzy. His line of vision consisted of little else until he reached the bright aberration of yellow and red and puke green that was the shack. Leaping inside, locking the door behind him, he descended the steps to the basement and threw the box down onto the workspace he and Fiddleford had set up all those months ago. The gloves weren’t a brand found in Gravity Falls. Thick polyurethane, dark blue. Not the cheap yellow latex found in every convenience store in town.

Stanley removed the blood-flaked glove he’d stuffed away in the evidence box some time ago and laid it out beside one of the gloves from Fiddleford’s cleaning equipment.

A perfect match. He looked between them, sickened and chilled, trying to find some discrepancy. But they were exactly the same, right down to the size.

Connections that seemed obvious now flung themselves at him; Fiddleford inviting himself to work on the case; the red scrawl of eyes; the ease of which he had approached the corpses; the lack of a murder any night he and Fiddleford had shared a bed.

Through the fog of realization, Fiddleford's voice rose to the forefront of his mind. "It’s alright, Stanley. I’m pretty familiar with corpses. _"_

Stanley’s lower lip trembled.

 _This can’t really be happening_ , he thought. _Right?_

The basement was cold. The surface of the table prickled at his palms, a slight discomfort that forced him to recognize this as reality. The numbness that accompanied this realization wasn’t unlike the feeling that had come over him the day he had lost his brother, just prior to violent, heaving sobs that emptied his tear ducts of all available fluid. He took a step back from the display. He regarded it blankly for a while, afraid that doing anything else would topple his composure like a row of dominoes.

But he had to tell the police, didn’t he. He had to tell them so they would lock Fiddleford away forever, just like they had David Berkowitz and John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy.

The greedy part of him that had been exacerbated by the desertion of his family begged him not to do it. Fiddleford wouldn’t be the only one receiving a sentence when caught. Stanley would be sentenced to isolation; years - maybe even _decades_ of being completely and utterly alone. He could avoid that if he pretended he’d never found out. If he ran back to Fiddleford’s house, returned the gloves. He could make up some stupid excuse, like ‘I was going to surprise you with outrageous sex’. Fiddleford would believe that. Fiddleford would smile in that warm way he always did and invite him inside and everything would be just fine.

…And he would never again get a good night’s sleep because he would continue waking in the middle of the night, sweaty and shivering with adrenaline, afraid of the man sleeping next to him. Perhaps Fiddleford would further justify Stanley’s paranoid if Stanley remained there long enough. He was, after all, a serial killer, and it was possible the feelings he’d claimed to have for Stanley were about as genuine as his concern for the dead. Just another manner of which he was a psychopath.

He had to act before the numbness was replaced by something considerably less manageable. Scooping up the gloves, shoving them into a pocket, he thudded his way up the stairs and was at a run by the time he reached his porch.

Ray and Ennis’ shift ended after six. They were on call now, able to go home if that was what they wanted to do, but the station was across from a nursing home, the kitchen of which both buildings shared, and they often remained at the station for the benefit of free confectioneries, sandwiches, television, and comfortable beds with attached radiators. Stanley was relieved to see the windows lit a bright orange.

He found Ray and Ennis in the break room, watching television and spooning swirls of cream and Pavlova into their mouths.

“Fiddleford did it!” he blurted out.

Both of them jerked around to face him, perplexed.

Ennis was the first one to speak, as per usual. “I beg your pardon?”

“Fiddleford did it,” he said again, digging the gloves out of his pocket and tossing them onto the cream tabletop. Ennis extended a hand and picked them up with a thumb and forefinger. “He did it. He killed them. All those people.”

“Stanley, are you certain about this?” Ennis dropped the gloves, swiping them over to Ray, who picked them up and stood out of his chair. “You just threw gloves in front of me and announced that Fiddleford was the murderer. How did you come to that conclusion?”

“They’re the same goddamn type! You can’t get those gloves around here!” He knew he wasn’t articulating well, but he was having a hard enough time communicating at all that he felt he ought to give himself some credit.

Ennis gently took one of Stanley’s hands, pale stretches of skin contrasting noticeably with the tan of Stanley’s. It looked like he hadn’t clipped his nails in a while. They grazed Stanley’s knuckles as Ennis lightly pet the top of his hand.

“Stanley, may I ask you something?”

“Uh…” A police officer asking his permission for something? That was a first. “Okay...?”

Ennis’ lips stretched into a faint smile. “Do you know what anagrams are?”

“Anagrams?”

“Look, come over here.” Stanley looked up in time to see Ray approaching the sink, but didn’t think much of it as he was led over to the table, to a pen and piece of paper Ennis had been using to fill a crossword puzzle.

“I just told you Fiddleford was the killer! Aren’t ya gonna do something?”

Ennis sighed impatiently. “This is _pertinent_ , Stanley.”

“Pertinent?”

“It’s relevant to the case. You know what relevant means don’t you?”

Stanley scowled. “Get on with it, then,” he muttered.

Flipping the paper over for a fresh canvas, Ennis wrote in large, blocky letters the words ‘It Is Unseen’. Stanley examine this, uncertain of its relevance. And then Ennis continued writing, jotting his name down beneath it.

_Ennis Suite._

_Enn is Su it e._

_It is Ennsue._

_It is Unseen._

The red eyes. The crosses.

“Oh, _shit_.”

The harsh grate of the garbage disposal roared through the room, and Stanley didn’t need to look up to know it was reducing his evidence to a fine unsalvageable mush. Even if he had wanted to raise his head, he wasn’t given the opportunity; something hard and distinctly metal went slamming into the back of it, sending him sprawling across the table, knocking cutlery and the little plastic bowls containing Pavlova this way and that. He heard a gun being holstered as his vision wavered and tendrils of black crawled at the edges in threat of oblivion.

“You can call me Ivan,” he heard his assailant say, one of his thin hands curling around the collar of Stanley’s shirt and rolling him onto his back. Something very near a whimper bubbled out Stanley’s throat.

“Do you have any idea how _grating_ you are, Pines? I’ve been looking forward to this day!” Ivan continued, his teeth a too-bright smear of white. Stanley could feel a liquid that was undoubtedly blood blooming on the back of his head. “God, I’ve wanted to get rid of you since the very day I met you! Or have Fiddleford do it, rather. He insisted we keep you alive, see what we could do with you, but I always knew you would be as much as a blight as your brother was.”

A forearm secured him to the table, and with a surge of horror – a useless one, providing no miraculous rush of strength that would facilitate an escape – he made out the shape of a pen being held high above him by Ivan.

“Wait-“ he gurgled, fully anticipating a sharp pain followed by death.

The sharp pain came, whipping his head back as he reactively screamed, his entire body jerking around wildly and futilely, but it wasn’t one that would lead to the reprieve of death. Agony lashed up his arm from his hand, in which the pen had been embedded.

“Honestly, Stanley, did you really think the police would employ the help of a _civilian_? Are you really that _dense_?”

Miserable and in pain, he wasn’t able to form much of an opinion on that. His screams tapered off into moans, his body jerking like a fish on an embankment beneath Ivan’s grip.

“How naive you are. The only reason you were asked for was to draw Stan _ford_ Pines out into the open.” The pen was yanked out. He choked on a sob, his eyes glassy with tears. “Tell me, Stanley: how do you feel, knowing the person you’ve been _fucking_ all this time intended to kill your brother?”

The agony wasn’t enough to prevent Stanley from swirling bloody saliva around his mouth and spitting it out at Ivan. It splattered over his cheek, sliding sloppily down his jaw and sizable chin. Stanley was backhanded so hard his teeth rattled and his vision spun. He tasted a fresh spill of blood on his gums.

“Miserable little urchin,” Ivan snarled. His hands curled tight and angry around Stanley’s neck, thumbs pressed over the windpipe. There was just enough pressure to make his every inhale a rasp. “I should have killed you before you became a nuisance! Before you _ruined_ our leader!”

He was sure Ivan could feel the pulse in the hollows of his throat thrumming sluggishly against his palms. The stifling of circulation had flushed his face, made his ears burn. It would have been borderline painful had he the mind to notice. He swiveled his gaze across the room to where Ray was standing; a fuzzy, indistinct blob, almost entirely black. Or maybe that was just a black smudge forming over his eyes, growing toward the corners as Ivan squeezed the breath out of him.

It was then that Stanley realized, symbolically, that he was going to die.

He was feeling very drowsy as he weakly yanked at Ivan’s wrists. They were as thick as two fingers, but felt as strong as steel to Stanley’s oxygen-deprived body.

Ivan’s eyelids dropped almost appraisingly. “I can almost see the appeal, though, looking at you now.” Stanley wanted to spit at him, the sadist bastard, but couldn’t find the strength to do so. His grip was slackening, his earlier struggles slowing to a twitch. His vision had been reduced to an oily haze of black with streaks of white, and he expected those too would soon fade.

“Don’t worry, Stanley; I don’t intend to let you leave the world this peacefully,” was the last thing he heard before his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I actually feel compelled to apologize for this twist. I am so very, very sorry.


	9. Mad men and their justifications

Stanley woke slowly, muzzily, shaking his head in a futile effort to clear away the dizziness. Something cold and thick looped around his wrists, biting into the skin. When he tried to brush it off, to move away, he realized his hands were bound to the legs of a chair and stretched taut behind his back. Leather, he discovered, twisting in his restraints. One hand was slick with blood and stung horribly as he moved it, and he recalled the pen, and the agony, and had to bite back a belated whimper. He tried moving his legs, next, and found they were firmly secured to the chair with wire.

“About time you woke up, Stanley.” It was only now that Stanley noticed Ivan sitting across from him, smiling thin and dark. His chair was wood rather than the sturdy metal of Stanley’s. “For a moment there I thought I’d gone a little too far.”

Stanley’s voice came out a hoarse croak, “You fucking _choked_ me until I passed out! How was _that_ not 'a little too far'?” His throat burned in memory of the aggression. He could just about hear the addition to his autopsy report, ‘bruising and damage to the oesophagus indicates victim was violently asphyxiated several hours prior to death’. He shivered.

“You’re still alive, aren’t you? If I'd gone as far as I would have liked, you would be _dead_.” Ivan leaned into Stanley’s peripheral vision, reaching for something. “That's still a possibility. I haven't decided what exactly to do with you yet."

“Why would you want to draw this out?” Stanley had a good idea of why, but he wanted to get Ivan talking. Extend his lifespan for as long as possible.

Ivan appeared to be searching for something on a trolley. Stanley could hear all sorts of clattering and clanging as Ivan picked things up, examined them, and then dropped them haphazardly back into his pile of equipment. All the items he picked up were long and thin and metal, some clearly being knives, and Stanley wasn't looking forward to finding out if 'sharp' was a theme among them. “Because you don't _deserve_ a quick death," Ivan continued at last, glancing over his shoulder. "You _ruined_ our leader. You made him _doubt_.” There was harsh, spitting note to the end of each word, as if they were physically painful to expel at their current volume. ”We knew what we wanted to accomplish here, what _had_ to accomplish, until _you_ came along and sent all our meticulous planning to hell.”

“You're upset because I stopped you from _murdering_ everyone in town?"

“No!” Ivan spun back around, stepping in so close to Stanley that there was no personal space to speak of. His eyes caught sight of something glinting under the overhead light, and he saw Ivan held a long thin metal ice pick in his hand. “It wasn't just 'murder'; we were _helping_ people,” Ivan snarled, shoving the pointed end of the pick up under Stanley’s chin. “We were chasing away the ones that could be saved and killing the ones that couldn’t!”

“Saved from what?” Stanley spat back, defiant despite his precarious position.

Ivan held the pick so firmly to his skin that blood beaded beneath the point. “Why, from Gravity Falls, of course,” he answered in a voice turned melodious. “We can’t live among the unearthly inhabitants of this place. We were never meant to. That’s why I had to kill those two people, and that’s why Fiddleford had to kill dozens more.” The sincerity frightened Stanley more than blatant psychopathy would have.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” he tried to shout, but it came out as an ineffectual whimper as the pick tore deeper into his skin.

His whimpering developed into a frightened yelp of pain as Ivan’s free hand tore through his hair, grasping a handful at the roots.

“It doesn’t make sense because you don’t _want_ to it. You don’t want to think their deaths were necessary for the well-being of everyone else.” Ivan’s words skirted over Stanley’s lips in the form of cool breaths, and he didn't dare inhale, repulsed by the idea of having this mans breath in his lungs. “But that doesn’t really matter. You won’t have the capacity to make sense of anything when I’m through with you.”

At a loss for an intelligent retort, he spat, “That’s some real fucked up justification, you know that? You’re _sick._ ”

“Am I?” Ivan scraped the fine point of the pick over Stanley’s jugular. One merciless jab put an end to Stanley’s bravado, drawing a cry of terror and pain. Blood slipped from his neck in rivulets almost too thin to be seen. There was a wound in his throat, but he couldn’t look down to examine it; he could only feel the accumulation of blood. “I promise you, you won’t be thinking that for long. Or at all, for that matter.”

“Whatever it is you're planning to do, you- you don't have to. W-we can talk about this.” It was one last grappling attempt to save his hide, and Stanley knew he'd failed even before hearing Ivan's response.

“We just did." Ivan uncurled his fingers, nonchalantly wiping stands of brown hair off on his trousers. “You didn’t listen.”

“I’m listening _now_.”

“Too little, too late.” The man smiled derisively down at Stanley and his heart thumped audibly in his chest, as if a ceaseless ball of energy was trapped in the cage of his ribs. “Are you familiar with the names Walter Freeman and James Watts?”

Stanley searched his frazzled mind and came up empty. Regardless, he answered, “Future victims?”

“That’s a no, I take it.” The point of the pick trailed up over his chin, over his bottom lip, teasing at his teeth. He tasted copper. “I’m sure you know what lobotomies are, though.”

Lobotomies, Stanley was familiar with. He’d been suggested for the procedure during his ‘loony’ days, but his understanding of it was still vague. As far as he knew, it consisted of ‘cutting the bad feelings away’.

Ivan took his thoughtful silence for ignorance and sighed in exasperation. He lifted the pick, tapping its bright red tip just beneath Stanley's left eye. “The frontal lobes of the brain can be reached through use of this ice-pick. I’ll wiggle it around in there to sever as many connections as possible.”

A deeper understanding was lost on Stanley. "H-huh?" was his hapless response.

Again, Ivan sighed. “It’s been criticized in recent years as there are people who end up vegetables, people reduced to child-like states, people who’re paralyzed, and people whose personalities undergo a dramatic change. I hope to achieve the latter with you.”

A cold flush spread out from Stanley’s chest. His heart felt as if it’d skipped several beats. “Y-you’re going to make me a vegetable?”

“I just told you what I hoped to achieve, and it isn’t to turn you into a vegetable,” Ivan answered, and then rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “But if I do slice away a bit too much, well, que sera sera.”

Evidently there were worse things than death, and this was it. His hands began to tremble. The chilly feeling of fear was enveloping him from the inside out. “F-Fiddleford wouldn’t agree to this! He’ll be furious! He’ll-“

“You’d be surprised by what he would agree to; his initial and _current_ idea is to deprive people of their memories. Nearly burned his face off the first time he tried that. He really should stick with the plan that doesn’t involve shooting concentrated bursts of energy at himself.” Ivan guffawed. “Fortunately, his role as leader has been usurped.” Ivan leaned back to spread a hand on his chest with flourish. “By _me_.”

“But Ray-“

“Is practically my second in command by this point.”

“But this is fucking insane! You can't just - just cut away at a guys brain because they pissed you off! This is the sort of psychopathic shit Jack Nicholson does in horror movies!” He was babbling, desperate to appeal to what vestiges of humanity remained in Ivan.

The pleasure on Ivan’s face didn’t survive his criticism. Ivan's hand dropped from his chest, curling into a fist. “No, this is _sanity_!” he snarled, punctuating his words with a strike to Stanley’s jaw and sending drums pounding through Stanley’s head. He felt another strike to his cheek and offered up little more than a wheeze in protest. Slumping backward, Stanley turned dazed, ashy eyes to a rotating ceiling.

It was then he realized the blood from his injured hand had made the leather of his bindings slick.

* * *

The fist sent Ivan staggering, ice pick flying out of his hand and skittering across the floor. He looked down, eyes comically wide, as Stanley ripped away the remaining leather strap and then started on the wire looped around his ankles. “Don’t you dare,” Ivan squealed, as if this would do anything to prevent Stanley from pummeling him into the cement.

His first steps were stuttering, courtesy of the head trauma he’d been subjected to in the last hour, and Ivan retreated to the back of the room and picked up the top of the portable tray, brandishing it like a shield. A wet hand slapped it out of the way with ease, and then Ivan was being tossed into the wall like a rag doll, a hand locked around his neck and squeezing him into a nice shade of blue.

“B-by the way, givin’ me a fake name was r-really fuckin’ unnecessary,” Stanley said, rearing a fist back. Ivan had started out with a straight nose. He had a misshapen one by the time he slumped to the ground, unconscious. Stanley looked to the pick contemplatively. In the end, he opted against using it on Ivan and tied the man to a chair, dropping the ice pick into his lap.

After escaping the room, Stanley wasn’t certain of how far he meandered before he swerved into a cluster of bushes, lowered his head, and vomited. Feverish with the symptoms of a concussion, he lowered himself to the grass, sitting against a tree with his chin propped up by a knee. The shack couldn't have been far away, but he wasn't able to will himself to move the little distance necessary to reach it. He vomited twice more, once coming up with a thick, gunky liquid spotted with blood that burned his tongue, and that was when his body decided it time to force him into a light doze.

He didn’t hear the rustle of someone approaching.

Slowly, reluctantly, he became aware of a warbling voice above him. “Oh god, Stanley! There you are! God, look at you! Are you alright?” He peeled open his sore red eyes and Fiddleford was looking down at him, cheeks pink and wet with tears. He looked inconsolable. “Stanley? I'm so sorry! I never meant for this to happen!”

He growled. It was an involuntary response, but one he felt was warranted. “Why the fuck're you here? You don't care about me. Y-you’re a fuckin’ psychopath.” The words were full of bitter vitriol and Fiddleford brought a hand to his chest, cradling it to himself as if Stanley had just physically assaulted him.

“You know, then...?”

“’Course I know. Why else would I be down here, vomiting into a bush?”

Fiddleford jittered from foot to foot. “How... how much do you know?”

“That you killed all those people,” Stanley started, briefly turning to spit into the grass. “And that you dragged me along on t-this case for no reason whatsoever, except maybe to f-fuck with me.” A groan, and he added under his breath, “God, I feel like shit.”

Fiddleford started to lean down to help him, but thought better of it when Stanley glared at him. “I know this is hard to understand, Stanley, but I thought if I let you work on the case long enough you’d start to understand what they – I – was trying to do.”

Stanley snorted. “You were killin’ people. Not a whole lot more to it than _that_. Did you think I’d empathize with you or something?”

“I...” Fiddleford hesitated. “I had thought you might be able to, just like Ivan and Ray and my other followers did.”

“Others? God.” He squeezed his eyes shut. This was so fucked up. “Y-you – you’re just as insane as Ivan.”

“We’re not insane; we’re trying to help people!” Fiddleford’s voice had risen in exasperation, but it lowered to a whisper as he continued. “If we’d started sooner, maybe your bother would still be here. We could have-“

“Shut up!” Stanley snapped. His eyes were still shut tight, his shoulders trembling with the effort it was taking to remain upright. “Don’t you dare talk to me a-about my brother! You were going to _kill_ him!”

Fiddleford obviously didn’t have a retort for that, because he fell into a brief silence. “...I love you, Stanley. I want you to know that wasn’t fake.”

“Shut up,” Stanley rasped.

“I love you. I still love you. When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to persuade you to join me, I stopped the killing. I tried to complete my initial project instead. I did it for you.”

Stanley ground his teeth. His eyes were stinging. “God, shut up. You’re a l-liar. You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

“I love you,” Fiddleford repeated, sounding painfully sincere. Stanley wanted nothing more than to recede into himself. To disappear. He would have taken a beating over Fiddleford professing his love. It was so much easier to take that kind of pain in stride. “I love you,” Fiddleford said again. “If you give me a chance, I promise you that will never change. I'll never hurt another human being if that's what you need from me.”

“Liar,” Stanley said. He’d intended it as a growl, but it came out as a whimper.

_Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You always cry too much. Dad always said so._

Warm hands descended to his shoulders and he found it incredibly hard not to let them remain there. He shrugged them off, but only succeeded in giving Fiddleford room to slide his thin arms around his torso. He was pulled into a warm embrace. Those hands he had become so familiar with came up to rub at his back, over the bobs of his spine and the prominent edges of his shoulder blades. He found himself unable to escape the hug. Mentally and physically, he was too weak.

“I love you,” Fiddleford whispered against the shell of his ear.

“N-no you don’t.” He curled his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “ _No you don’t_.”

“I love you,” Fiddleford insisted, squeezing Stanley even tighter. “Please don’t hate me. I couldn't live with that.”

“But you can live with the fact you _pulled out_ Susan’s _eye?_ ” he asked in a tiny, terrified voice.

“I’m- I'm sorry. I needed to do that to scare people.” Fiddleford pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his forehead, as if that made things any better. “I know that must be disturbing; even _I_ found it disturbing, but everything I’ve done was for the greater good. I wanted to save the world. _He_ was going to kill everyone if I didn't do something. I- I had to do it, Stanley.” He spoke so earnestly, and that did more to upset Stanley than alleviate his discomfort. "A few lives in exchange for the well being of the rest of the world is reasonable, isn't it? But I never wanted to, please believe me. I had to. I had to do it." His grip had begun to ache.

“Fids – _Mcgucket_ – you have to know how fucked up and crazy that sounds. Y-you're trying to justify _murder_.“

"I didn't have any other choice," Fiddleford insisted firmly. "The one eyed beast would have killed us all."

"The _what_?"

"The one eyed beast," Fiddleford repeated.

"I have no idea what the hell that-" His reply was cut short by a slight pain in his shoulder, almost like a bee sting. So insignificant that he would have overlooked it had Fiddleford not pulled back with a needle in hand. He looked from the needle, to his shoulder, his eyes wide with shock. He couldn’t see the entry wound, but he could feel drowsiness descending upon him in a heavy wave.

“I had to borrow this from Stanford’s stock,” he faintly heard Fiddleford explain. “It’s harmless. You'll be okay.”

Whatever it was Fiddleford said next was rendered unintelligible by the sedative. Stanley toppled onto his side, unconscious.


	10. Epilogue: it begins anew

Something wet and soft was draped over his forehead. Unthinking as he awoke, he palmed it down to his lips and eagerly sucked it in, extracting every bit of moisture he could. He let it tumble away once it had dried and then whimpered, opening his eyes a crack. He had to blink and squint before he could make out what he was looking at. A wall, to which dozens of photographs had been pinned. Raising himself up onto his knees, he realized there was a mirror amid them, drilled into the wood. He looked into the mirror, and then at the photographs, recognizing one of the two people depicted as himself.

Slowly turning his head, he noticed there were bars on the window. He felt as though he had been in this room a long time, but couldn’t remember it prior to waking up.

“It’s good to see you awake.”

He whipped his head around to face the source of the voice; bad idea. He was immediately overcome by the urge to vomit. Dropping onto his side, he gagged, and a bowl was quickly situated under his mouth.

“Shh, don’t move so fast. You’ll hurt yourself.”

A man raked his fingers through his mattered hair as his body convulsed, and then smoothed his fringe away from his sweat-slick face once he was finished. The taste of sour bile lingered on his lips. Grabbing the damp cloth to wipe it away, he looked up at the man, confused. It was the same person from the photos.

“Who are you?” And then, blinking rapidly, he looked down at himself. Blue pyjama trousers, pink-ringed wrists, and a belly poking out from under a stained singlet. A vague sense of familiarity accompanied the sight of these things, but he couldn’t say why. “Who – who am I? Where am I? What is this place?”

“It’s your home,” the man said, leaning over him to plant a kiss on his forehead. “You’re Stanley Pines, and I’m Fiddleford Mcgucket, your lover. I’m an engineer.”

Stanley did feel some affection for this man. He looked at him, and then at the photographs of them frolicking on a beach. “Why do I feel so sick, though?”

“You were in a car accident, darlin’. You hurt your head terribly.” Fiddleford turned to look at the photographs along with him. “You weren’t responsive for weeks, except for the occasional violent fit. I had to install bars on the window so you wouldn’t go leaping out.”

“Oh.” He touched his fingers to his forehead, feeling rough, bumpy flesh. It couldn’t have been from a laceration. It was too large and thick. He must’ve been burned in the crash. “What sort of science stuff do you do?” he asked.

Fiddleford smiled, gentle and warm. “Well, what I’m currently working on is still a work in progress. But as of recently, I specialize in memory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Finally, it's done! Thank you all very, very much for the bookmarks, comments, and kudos; I wouldn't have been able to finish this story if not for your support!
> 
> Now, I'm debating on whether or not to make a sequel. A multi-chaptered addition that goes into detail about what happened before the epilogue, and perhaps into Fiddleford's slow descent into madness. I'm not sure if anyone would be interested in something so dark (considering how lighthearted the Fiddlestan community is!) so let me know if it's something you would be interested in or if I should leave this story with its current ending.


End file.
